The Light Bearer
by Chellez
Summary: Aila, rational and modern, is the Light Bearer, the salvation of the Elves of Middle Earth. Seen as a Prophet, she first assists the Fellowship in their quest but amid the distraction and her own insecurities can she fulfill her prophecy in time?
1. A Quiet Life

A Note From the Author: This is a story that I wrote, and which is posted on under the name Intarille (an account which is no longer accessible to me, since I cannot remember e-mail or password), when I was first entering high school. In all this time since its completion, some 7, almost 8, years, it has still lingered in my mind. Upon re-reading it recently, I thought I could do a much better job with this storyline than my 14-year old self had. As such, I am re-writing it. It is an exercise in reminding myself what I loved so dearly about writing since graduate school, I believe, has sucked my love of it right out of me. Also, it has been many years since I concerned myself with anything LOTR, and considering how large a part of my life this story was at one time, I am pulled again to it. I hope that you enjoy this readjustment to an old tale.

Disclaimer: A large portion of the characters and plot herein, though not all, is the property of Mr. JRR Tolkien. This is a fanfiction meant for the pleasure and enjoyment of its author and readers, and never meant for profit or publication.

. . .

Ch. 1 A Quiet Life

Upon opening the door, Duke greeted her with a pleased gasp and rushed to meet her in the entry-way, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor of the apartment, his breath coming in happy puffs. He put his large, wet nose into the palm of her hand, snuffling as though looking for treats. He gave one tremendous puff out, which flared out his cheeks, as his nose quit her hand and looked up at her happily, sitting himself immediately in her path. She held out a flat palm, indicating that he should stay, as she reached back into the hall and began pulling in the mirror which she had just bought not an hour before. Aila kept her left leg straight, blocking the avenue to the door so that her dog couldn't escape or come near the large mirror. The mirror itself was quite heavy, and Aila was forced to resort to dragging it along the floor on its indelicate feet until the entirety of the mirror gained the entry hall of her small apartment. After having pulled it far enough to then be able to close her front door, Aila left the mirror in the hallway. Curious, Duke walked all about the mirror, sniffing and occasionally shooting out an inquisitive tongue, but after a few minutes he gave up the mirror entirely and followed his mistress into the kitchen.

The Doberman subsequently plopped his haunches down in the very middle of the kitchen, easily the most inconvenient spot, as was his habit. Aila chuckled and tossed him not a small piece of the vegetable she was chopping. He snatched it from the air quickly and easily, gaily crunching, his eyes alight, and he watched her doings intently. Occasionally, Aila ruffled his ears on her way from sink to stove, her fingers easily and unthinkingly finding and scratching that happiest spot behind his ears that made Duke's tongue loll contentedly from his mouth.

After dinner, she returned to the entry hall, hands upon her hips, as she considered the best way to move the large, heavy mirror, and, indeed, where she wanted to keep the thing. It had been a strange evening, after leaving work she had happened across a garage sale sign, perched precariously on a small stick in the road's grassy median. She couldn't remember the last time she had gone to a garage sale, or in fact if she ever had, but found herself turning to follow the directions, as though some fancy had taken her. Immediately upon exiting her car she saw the thing, that grand old mirror. There was some part of it that was quite ugly, actually, but perhaps not in a significant way. It's design was quite overdone, perhaps elegant in its day, but it's wood was old and stained and the glass, upon closer inspection, showed a large crack in the upper right corner. "A family heirloom," the woman had said, coming up from behind Aila. The owner smiled softly, her gray hair and kind eyes suggesting that she was well into her fifties, explaining that the mirror had been her late husband's, who had died many years ago of cancer. Since she had never remarried or had children, there was no one to pass the mirror to, and she could no longer stand to ignore it and could no longer stand to own it. A very short time later, the mirror rested lengthwise in the backseat of Aila's car.

Now the mirror stood obstinately in her apartment. It certainly did not go with the general decor of her apartment, for which she preferred simpler and more elegant designs. There was something, however ... something which had attracted her to this mirror and caused her to bring it home. She left it in her living room for the moment, perhaps later in the evening she would drag it into her bedroom and see how she felt about it there. For now, she changed into flannel pajama bottoms, donned slippers and a soft robe, and made herself a cup of tea. She sat then on her couch, but rather than watching television, her gaze turned out her large glass sliding doors, watching the Boston evening turn darker. It was the very end of September but it seemed to her that fall was quite over and done. She would be very surprised if it were not snowing in the Northeast within the week. Duke jumped onto the couch and settled beside her, his head resting in her lap. She stroked his head fondly and automatically, sipping her tea, and losing herself in thought.

She passed her evening in this manner, alternating her gaze from out of doors to the things which occupied her living room. She had a large and impressive collection of books on either side of her television – a television which, as it happens, was rarely used. The books occupied most of her attention during her free time, when she was not in the mood to gaze absently and quietly about the place as she did now. Sometimes she was amazed by her own propensity to pass long spans of time merely sitting and thinking. Patient, waiting, watching. But, those moments of internal solace comforted her and calmed her in spite of her stressful life. Her eyes fell again on the mirror.

The general construction of the mirror was, she thought, of rosewood: a dark chocolate hue that was pleasing and absorbed the eye readily. The upper corners rose gracefully like castle spires, peaking in a shape much like an arrowhead. The feet at its base were clawed, but not like any animal's feet that she knew, as each foot had seven clawed toes. And across the top was an interesting pattern of loops and twirling lines, dots and accents. In fact, as she looked longer, it looked less like a pattern and more like script – indeed, there was little pattern to be seen in the design above the mirror's glass, and perhaps something was written there in a tongue that Aila did not know or recognize.

Arabic, perhaps? But it was not quite as flowing as that middle eastern language. The letters were not connected across the top, as they might have been were it Hindi. She thought briefly of old Norse runes, as the previous owner of the mirror had seemed quite European in her appearance, but she dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. She knew little about the runes, but knew they were more blockish and disjointed than this script appeared.

The remnants of her tea had long gone cold in her hands, so she set the mug on her kitchen counter and called back to Duke, who had remained on the couch. "Bedtime?" she asked, and he obligingly stretched from the couch and followed her back into the bedroom. Aila fell asleep thinking nothing of the mirror.

. . .

In the morning, she woke early and went busily about her day without a glance over her shoulder at the mirror that still stood firmly in her living room. She went to work and her mind was entirely occupied in thoughts of her research and the strong desire that it not begin to snow or rain before she got safely home that night. She was required to stay behind at work that evening to conduct some fMRI scans for the study, and was not able to return home until late. Duke greeted her sullenly, unhappy that he had been left alone for so long. This continued for several days.

She spent the following Saturday with Duke, to make up for the time she had been forced to leave the Doberman alone. They went to the nearby dog park and she even drove him out to the harbor so that they could walk along the walk there. Aila had always loved the historicity of Boston and, strolling with her dog along the historic harbor, was succor for her tired heart. It had been a long week in the lab, but the weekend yawned and stretched happily before her.

That evening, Aila lie awake in her bed, flat on her back and staring at the mirror which she had moved into her bedroom. That strange language still perplexed her and she was turning over in her mind, again and again, the possibilities for its translation. Duke's back was pressed warmly against her side and his snores reminded her regularly that she still awaited sleep. The minutes crawled by, her hand automatically reaching to stroke Duke gently as he slept. His fur was warm and soothing. She lifted her other hand to her mouth, her lips parting to give her teeth access to the already too short nails she had bitten down. It was a nervous habit she had never quite been able to get rid of, and unhappily she thought of how such short nails made her already large, masculine hands seem even more masculine. She pulled her hand back down and rested it on her chest, outside the coverlet. Her eyes finally closed and she fell asleep.

Aila woke up again only a few hours later, in the dead of the night. Her room was dark and shadowy, it felt as though she were in a foreign place, and not her room at all. Her tongue stuck in her mouth and her throat was closed, and Aila swung her legs out of bed to get a glass of water. Duke groaned beside her, deep in sleep still but perturbed by her movement. She lifted a hand to his head and gave a few soft strokes. On her feet, she felt dizzy and ungrounded. Aila grasped the edge of her bed to lead her along, since her legs had not fully awoken from what had been a deep sleep, and Aila vaguely wondered what had woken her. She glanced blearily and saw that the red letters of her alarm clock read 3:16 AM. It was the first of October.

Stumbling now, her hands groped forward to find some purchase, some solid object to steady herself on as she blindly moved forward. Nothing came readily to her hands and she began, horrified, to fall forward, unbalanced and unsteady. Too late her fingers wrapped around an object, the mirror, and Aila's realization was terrifying. She would crash headlong into that mirror, its glass would shatter and dig into her flesh. The scars would remain in her pale skin for years, she guessed. She inhaled sharply, closed her eyes, and waited for the crash. Instead, she hit stone floor, not at all forgiving and she let her breath out in a pained groan. Slowly, she unscrewed her eyes against sudden light, where it had come from she didn't know. Mindful of her bruised side, she looked first at her hands on the stone floor, gray and worn smooth, but exceptionally clean. Surprised shouts began behind her.


	2. Through the Looking Glass

Ch. 2 Through the Looking-Glass

She spun around, still half-seated and half-lying upon the floor, to face whoever was shouting. There were two tall men, each with long blonde hair and keen blue eyes. At first, Aila imagined they must have been twins, but quickly noticed the differences in their features. Still, she thought, there was something overwhelmingly similar ... She could not continue her line of thought as the two men advanced on her. Each was dressed in a light brown tunic, dark leggings underneath and high, soft boots. Around their waists soft woven belts were tied, and scabbarded in each belt was a long, sinister knife, almost the length of her thigh, hip to knee. Their eyes, however, were not menacing but surprised, wide open and wondering at her appearance. She allowed herself a moment to take her eyes away from them and saw, between them, the mirror. It reflected her bedroom, she saw Duke still sleeping immobile in her bed. The clock still shone red, the time: 3:16 AM. Hadn't even a minute passed? It felt like hours.

"_Boe i 'w__æ__l_," said one man to the other, and the latter quickly quit the room. It was a language she did not know and immediately Aila struggled to stand her ground before the remaining man. He waited while she stood, but since she knew not where she was, had no where to run. He lifted a hand to her, palm up and fingers curled casually, a gentle gesture, she imagined. "_Man le_?" he asked, his eyes showed concern and wonder, "_Man i eneth lîn_?" He took a step forward, his hand still proffered to her. His delicate eyebrows raised slightly as he waited for her response. She took a step back as he stepped forward, not understanding and not sure what to do. If she had fallen through the mirror, should she now run back through it? Could he follow her? "_A le S__ælrieth_?" She immediately knew that the last was a name, but not one she knew. She shook her head, still stepping back, until she felt her back stop against a wall.

Trapped.

She heard voices immediately outside the room and coming closer. She knew the other guard had found his query and was leading someone back to her. Aila braced herself, holding both hands out against the wall, spreading her arms, as though trying to melt her body into the wall itself, pressing heavily against it. The door opened quickly and admitted the man who had been there formerly, and two new. The first of the new entrants was blonde and quite similar to the others, but the second had dark brown hair, receding slightly from his forehead but with an ageless face that gave no clue to his years. He wore long sweeping silver robes, upon his mantle a delicate circlet of what seemed wrought silver. This last man regarded her for a moment. She felt as though she knew him, recognized him, and yet she did not. "_Man le?_" he demanded, his voice stern and deep. He took a quick step toward her, his eyebrows knitted together in a concerned manner. Though his voice was hard, he did not seem angry.

"I ..." she began, her mouth left open, unsure. "I don't understand what you are saying. Please, I don't understand. I don't know where I am!" Her words registered some surprise on the faces of the men gathered, and she mistakenly thought they did not understand her language, as much as she did not understand theirs. Quickly, she recalled a few of the languages that she knew and gave the same speech in rapid succession. She began in Swedish, since she thought its melody closest to what they had been saying, "Jag förstår inte vad du säger. Är du snäll, jag förstår inte. Jag vet inte var jag är!" No response, so in German: "Ich verstehe dich nicht. Bitte, ich verstehe nicht. Ich weiß nicht wo ich bin!" and then in Spanish, and a little in French. She faltered and stopped. She knew some Norwegian but if they hadn't understood her Swedish, then it was hopeless. A few seconds passed as they continued to stand still, Aila glanced quickly to each side, trying to find a way to escape, but one of the men had stood immediately between her and the mirror.

The dark-haired man stepped forward again to her, his hands open, palms up, showing he meant her no harm. "Pray, tell me lady," he began in English, his deep voice expertly forming the words, "what is your name and how came you to us?"

"Aila," she responded haltingly, her voice thick, her words sticking in her throat. She swallowed quickly, wet her tongue, and began again, "my name is Aila. I guess," she faltered again, looking past one of the men to look into the mirror. Aila straightened her back and lifted her chin, trying to emote some strength she did not feel. "I came through the mirror." Her voice rang strong and definitive. It surprised even her. One of the guards shifted on his feet, breath escaping his lips as he whispered,

"_Sælrieth_!"


	3. The Last Homely House

Ch. 3 The Last Homely House

Before any could respond, beyond the immediate and repetitive whispering of the word, or name, Sælrieth, a flurry of footsteps was heard outside the room and the door flew open once more. A woman, dark haired and tall, entered the room, her eyes fixed on the man who had spoken to Aila in English. "_Ada,_" she said breathlessly. Aila immediately knew, since she spoke enough languages to guess at some meaning, that this dark-haired man was her father. "_Man carnen_?" and her eyes fell upon Aila. Her face was beautiful, unrivalled by any that Aila had seen. Her features were delicate and proportional, arched eyebrows above well-shaped eyes and high-boned cheeks. Her shining eyes watched Aila, and the latter could not tell if the woman's eyes were blue or gray or brown.

"I am Elrond Halfelven," the man said again, surprising Aila for she had forgotten that any existed besides the woman who continued to gaze at her, unmoving, her gentle face a blank look of astonishment. It was Aila's turn to look incredulous: Elrond? "And this," he motioned to the room and more beyond, "is my House."

There were more words exchanged but Aila did not have the presence of mind to listen to any of them. The shock now laid upon her head and heart was overwhelming and she could not break the thought process rapidly occurring in her mind to listen or comprehend what was being said to her. The Lady Arwen, for Aila understood now that she must be Arwen, gently laid her hands upon Aila's upper arm and began to guide her out of the room. Dumb and mute, Aila followed, handicapped by the amazement and ceaseless wonder in her mind. As she exited the room, she took a last glance at the mirror through which she had come. It was, indeed, the twin of the mirror in her bedroom, and she could still see her room through its glass. The alarm clock still shown, bright red. 3:16 AM.

Aila and Arwen separated quickly from the rest of the group and the former was led into a quiet bedchamber, not in use from the look of it. Aila, upon seeing a chair not far into the room, quickly walked to it and sank down into its cushion, as she didn't think she could last another minute on her feet. She stared, stupidly, at Arwen as the elf regarded her quietly. "I will find you something more suitable to don, yes?" she asked. "Some robe that you will be more comfortable in than present dress." It was then that Aila realized, with blood rushing to her cheeks, that she was still in flannel pajama pants and a tank top, bare-footed and wandering about the Last Homely House. After some fervent discussion with what appeared to be a maid, Arwen produced a dress similar in style and fabric to her own and laid it upon the bed for Aila to put on. With a small bow of her head, Arwen glided to the door.

"Wait," called Aila desperately. She wasn't sure what she wanted to say, only that she had something to ask. The whole experience was overpowering her senses and she had to confirm what she was deducing. "Where am I?" she asked hesitantly. Arwen smiled and Aila thought, perhaps, the room became a bit brighter.

"Imladris, which many call Rivendell," she breathed, and on her second attempt, exited the room.

Aila did not rise from her chair for some time. She had to allow her thoughts to catch up with the things which had just occurred before her. It was implausible, she thought, impossible. There was no way in rational thought that she could allow herself the possibility that she wasn't simply dreaming herself to be in Middle Earth, and at Rivendell no less. Of course, it felt real, and it was more realistic than any dream she had ever had before. Still ... no, it could not be possible. Resolute, she stood and picked up the dress laid out for her. If it was a dream, she would see it to its conclusion and enjoy the time she had before waking up, safe and sound and quite alone, in the real world and in her own bed.

She stood quickly and walked in short steps to the dress on the bed. In putting it on, she had some difficulty as it wasn't made for her and, in fact, was made for someone quite unlike her body type. The bodice fit too tightly and the skirt flowed far too long. This dress was made for elven women, and though not particularly overweight, she fit very ill into the garments sewn for elven bodies. Even the slippers provided her were too narrow for her feet and rubbed against unhappy feet. The maid quickly pinned up the extra length at the bottom of the dress so that Aila would not trip upon it, and she was satisfied. Upon quitting the room, Arwen was found waiting outside in the hallway for her. Aila immediately regretted sitting so long on the chair to think since she had kept the elf waiting. "Come," beckoned Arwen with a smile, "you are meant for my father this afternoon."

Aila followed Arwen through halls that were great and beautiful: intricate carvings etched into wood and stone surrounded her, awe-inspiring beams of solid but light construction supported the building's delicate and ornately carved ceiling. "Rivendell," Aila whispered in amazement.

It was not a short walk that brought Aila back into the presence of Lord Elrond, but she found herself there before she realized they had passed through any significant part of the House. Her eyes had been constantly turned outward, to the lush gardens and singing elves that occupied the exterior of the House. Now, however, through a thin and tall set of doors brought her once more in the presence of Elrond, who beckoned Aila take a seat at a small, round table. He sat himself there also, and Arwen between them. A fourth chair sat empty opposite the elf-maiden.

"Do you know," Elrond began, imperiously lacing his fingers together in front of his mouth, placing lower lip to index finger, "why you have come here?" Aila responded that she didn't. "It is, I fear, a long tale but which must be told to you, particularly, at length and in full detail." She did not stop him, and he began. "There has long been legend among the elves that our time in Middle Earth would draw to a close and that we must leave its shores for the West. I fear, with your coming, that this time is nearly upon us. It is troubling, of course, that your arrival coincides with these dark days, but it is not wholly unrelated I wager, and your coming will convince those of us who have held out in Middle Earth that the Leaving Days are upon us." He paused, took a breath, and continued, "You, you must understand, are precious to us."

"Why?" Aila breathed, unable to hold her tongue. "I do not understand when you speak in such riddles. Who am I? Or better, _what_ am I? Why, and how, have I come here?"

"You, Aila, are the Light Bearer, Sælrieth, the Undying Star of the Elven People."

There was a long pause and none of the three said a word. Outside, Aila could hear the jubilant singing of the elves, heralding the flowers and the sunlight and their home in Middle Earth. Was Aila to lead them from it to the Undying Lands in the West?

After a time, Elrond began to explain. He told her that the mirror had been created as the passageway of the Light Bearer, to bring her out of Time and distance unknown to the Elves in the time of her prophecy. The elves had stationed a watch over the mirror, to await the arrival of Sælrieth, for countless centuries. Sælrieth, the Undying Star, he told her, was the salvation of the Elves of Middle Earth. Prophecy told of her arrival, of her falling in love, and her Child, this last of which would lead the elves from their homes in Middle Earth and bring them all to the West. "Your arrival, Sælrieth, portends the winter of the Elves in Middle Earth and heralds the Age of Man on these shores." Aila listened with a heavy heart, a heart which increasingly sank as Elrond continued his explanation. The description of this woman, this Light Bearer, and the prophecy she must fulfill ...

"No," interrupted Aila. "No, it cannot be. I can't be this woman that you are waiting for. It is certainly a mistake. This prophecy, I am sure, is not meant for me. No," she repeated firmly, laying her palms flat on the table. She began to rise from her chair. "It is not me. And I must go home."

Both Elrond and Arwen flew to their feet before she could straighten her knees. "You cannot go!" implored Arwen, her breath low and surprised.

"Please," began Elrond, "you cannot go. At least until we are sure that you are – "

"—or are not!" Aila interjected.

"—or are not," Elrond allowed with a slight bow of his head, "She whom we await."

"Is there a way?" Aila asked, uncertainly, sinking back into her chair. She laid her hands in her lap. "I mean, a way to be certain?" Elrond and Arwen sat once more.

"Yes, there is a way," responded Elrond. "There is a precious gift which the Elves of Old made for Sælrieth, which will only respond to her touch. If you can hold it, then we know that you are that whom we await. Alas, this precious gift lies protected within a box which we cannot open." Aila thought she caught the meaning of the words.

"Am I meant to open it?"

"No, I am afraid the box itself was built to be opened by quite another than yourself, Sælrieth." Aila objected to the name and Elrond, again, acquiesced with a slight bow of his head. "As you wish, Lady Aila. As such," he continued, "we must await the wizard, Gandalf the Grey, for I believe he alone wields the power to open the box so that we may possess such a gift."

"And where, then, is Gandalf?"

"In the Wild, I am quite certain. He was meant to be in Rivendell now, but I fear something has delayed him. I hope that he will not be long in coming; I expect he may come within the fortnight."

"Two weeks!" Aila exclaimed, once more leaping from her seat. "I cannot remain here two weeks! I have a job, and a dog that needs food and to be taken out! I cannot, and absolutely will not, be removed from my life for two weeks. Can I not return home and, in two weeks time, come back through the mirror?"

"There is nothing, Father, to suggest that the mirror is an open passageway for her. If she steps through the mirror a second time, there is no guarantee that she will be able to return again to Middle Earth."

Silence reigned and for a second time, Aila sank back into her seat. She leaned forward, eyes open wide and she said beseechingly to Elrond, "Lord, I have a life, and that life is not here. You ask me to forsake my family, my friends, my career, and not least of all allow the slow death of my dog through negligence, and you ask all this for the _probability_ that I am some Light Bearer who will save a race of people I know nothing of? Are my sacrifices meant to be so great as to turn my heart cold to that purpose?"

Arwen's face was pained and Elrond leaned back in his chair, once more folding his hands together. "I concede. We cannot ask such things of you. We will go immediately to see if the mirror will allow your passage again tonight. However, I ask earnestly that you attempt, immediately upon your return to the other side, to come back to us again. Then we may rest easy that the mirror will allow your easy passage and that you can return to us. Otherwise, I fear, you will be lost to us forever and the Elves must be their own salvation, to what we may."

For the last time, Aila leapt to her feet. Together, the three hurried along the passageways, or rather did Aila hurry and the other two obliged her pace, until they came again to the chamber which held the mirror. Two elves were called again to stand watch over the mirror.

Aila approached the mirror cautiously now, sudden misgivings that her selfishness, and selfishness alone, was to betray an entire race of people. She saw her bedroom as it had sat before, Duke still sleeping on the bed, and her clock on the nightstand in the corner. That clock! What a mystery that it's face still read 3:16 AM, though Aila was sure that hours had passed. Perhaps, she wondered, she could only see into her room at the moment she had quit it and that the mirror did not reflect the current condition of her bedroom or the hour of the day. A sudden fancy struck her.

"What day is it?" she asked Arwen, and the lady responded quickly:

"It is now at the zenith of _Firith_, but I believe in the speech of Men, it is October the First."

Nodding, having heard what she wanted, Aila placed a cautious hand on the surface of the mirror. Her heart dropped as her palm met cool glass, and the glass resisted, leaving her palm firmly on its surface. After a moment, however, her hand began to pass through, and with a backward glance at Elrond and Arwen's anxious faces, Aila stepped into the silvery glass and darkness enveloped her.

Within a few seconds, she came to the other side and entered her bedroom. It was still oppressively dark in the space and her eyes strayed to the alarm clock. The red numbers on the face ticked to 3:17 AM before her eyes. Below, it read _1 Oct 2010_. Slowly, she came to the realization that time had not passed while she was in Middle Earth. Duke lifted his head and eyed her morosely, yawning and groaning. Remembering herself, Aila turned and placed her hand against the cool glass again. She did not immediately notice that the crack in the glass had mended.

She waited, expectant but not glad. In the back of her mind lived a nagging notion that she did not want to pass through the mirror again, at least not this night. She wished for time to process her thoughts and rationalize the things which had been laid before her. A strong part of her wished the entirety had been only a dream.

After a few moments, her hand had still not passed through, but remained on the surface of the glass. Aila waited a bit longer, keeping her hand pressed firmly to the glass. But nothing occurred. She did not pass through again. Realization dawned on her and shocked, Aila allowed her hand to drop to her side.

She crawled into bed and pulled Duke close against her chest, wrapping her arms around him and resting her chin on the crown of his head, between his ears. At first she lie there, perfectly still and quite numb. Then, as she thought about the night, she began to cry tears of remorse into her pillow.


	4. There and Back Again

A Note From the Author: A special thanks to Of-Light-and-Shadow — I appreciate your review. To be perfectly honest, I have been so taken up with the idea of publishing the beginning of what I have written here that, though not hot off the presses, the chapters preceding were definitely still quite warm. I will make a stronger effort to edit and proofread myself!

. . .

Ch. 4 There and Back Again

Aila awoke later on that morning, after a few scant hours of sleep, to Duke nudging her chin with his nose as he begged to be fed breakfast. He heartily licked the length of her face and that finally roused her from troubled slumber. Pushing the dog off of her chest, Aila pulled her comforter up to her chin and recalled the events of the night before. She stole a glance at the mirror, still standing regally in the corner of her room, undisturbed and unremarkable. Quickly she concluded that her imagination must have taken her last night and it was all just a dream. She had, after all, just finished reading the Lord of the Rings recently, for perhaps the twentieth time, and she rationalized that her dream may have been particularly vivid due to the influence of that story. But, as she threw off the covers, she saw that she was still wearing the dress that she had worn in Middle Earth, and a quick glance to the floor revealed the slippers she had worn as well.

Slowly, she swung her feet onto the floor and stood, cautiously approaching the mirror. She noticed now that the crack in the glass had disappeared and the glass shone brightly, her curious face reflected in it. She saw her eyebrows stitched together in confusion and wonder, the elven dress still tight on her torso. Aila prayed, wished, hoped that she would be allowed re-entry to that magical place. Gingerly, she placed her right palm upon the glass. After a moment's breath, her palm began to sink into the surface.

Just as quickly, she wrenched her hand back, keeping herself securely in her own home. Her thoughts paused a moment and she backed away from the mirror.

Aila gathered some clothes and went to the bathroom to change, well out of sight of the mirror. She went about her morning quite inattentive to her actions, though she tried very hard to keep her thoughts from the mirror and Rivendell beyond. She made herself another cup of tea and sat on her couch again, patiently sitting and thinking and largely doing nothing. In this position, she sat for some time.

"Something doesn't feel right," she said aloud, to no one. "It feels like ... like I'm overlooking something. Like there is something there that I am missing. I just can't see it. Something just isn't right!" At this Duke walked over to her and placed his paw up on her knee. She smiled at him, and knew that look.

Sometime later the pair found themselves at the dog park but Aila still could not distract herself. She watched Duke play with the other dogs, and leap happily about, and play catch, but her mind still worked vigorously trying to decipher some code she felt as though she had overlooked. "It's something to do with October, I think," she said aloud. Thankfully, she occupied a bench all to herself at the park and there were none around to hear her. But what? Of what importance was the date? She couldn't think of anything important that happened in October.

Frustrated, she stood and began to walk towards Duke, calling his name and commanding him to come to her in quick monosyllables. She had in this manner just given up any hope of deciphering her thoughts when a young man came running past her, calling out "Frodo! Frodo, heel, Frodo!" She spun and watched him run past her, immediately afraid that he knew where she had been – that somehow he knew. But his eyes were not on her and she saw that he stooped to collect a small Jack Russell terrier from a melee of playing dogs, which he bore away smilingly, saying "Frodo" almost every other word.

Frodo! she thought triumphantly. Frodo! This was the piece of the puzzle she had been missing. Now she hurried to collect Duke and together the two walked swiftly back to Aila's apartment. Upon gaining her front door, she rushed quickly to the venerable shelves of books which lined one wall of the living room. She knew which to look for and where to find it, and almost immediately seized _The Lord of the Rings_ from its honored place as the first on her shelf.

She cracked the binding and flipped through the first book and quickly was beginning to skim the second, when Frodo awakes in Rivendell to find Gandalf at his bedside, and she read their conversation quickly. October the 24th, Gandalf said. It was October the 24th, though Frodo could only account for it being the 21st.

Throwing the book aside, she rushed back into her bedroom to look at her clock. It read now 7:39 PM, and below that, _1 Oct 2010_. Arwen had said that it was also October 1st in Rivendell. There, then, Aila knew what she had been trying to figure out all day. In nineteen days, Frodo Baggins would escape the Nine across the Ford of Bruinen and find safe haven in Rivendell. These were the dark days which Elrond had referenced: the days of the Ring and the return of its Lord.

Mulling this over, she sat for some time again on her couch, until the clock registered that it was past 11 PM. She stood suddenly and walked over to the mirror which stood still in her bedroom. She raised a palm, not yet touching the glass, but she knew that she must return. Something deep within her resonated that she must be there for Frodo's arrival into Rivendell. While she waited, as Gandalf would arrive first, she could convince the elves that she was not their Light Bearer. Something so absurd simply couldn't be true. As she pondered this, she heard Duke sit patiently beside her as she stood in front of the mirror. She looked over and saw him, sitting smartly beside the mirror, his head cocked slightly to one side, curiously watching her behavior. A pang of guilt stung her heart. She knew, in that instant, that she couldn't leave Duke behind. She hoped if she was touching him, he could pass through as well. But even with a hand on him, how could she guide a resistant dog through a glass mirror? Sighing, she knelt down and wrapped her arms around him and lifted him to her chest, or as close as she was able. It was no easy task as he was large even for his big breed. Duke seemed to think her lifting him was a great joke and his stumpy little tail wagged voraciously. Unable to hold him for long, Aila pressed her shoulder into the mirror and felt it give way. And for a second time that day, she fell through the mirror onto a cold, smooth stone floor.

. . .

"Aila!" Arwen's voice called, soft and musical, but her voice cut through the sudden eruption of noise that sounded in the small room. Aila opened her eyes, which she had inadvertently held tightly closed, to a crowded room full of elves watching her mess about on the floor. Duke leapt up from the floor and stood beside her, his hackles raised and his fur standing on end. Several Elves rushed to help Aila to her feet, but Duke's growls forced them to hold their ground. She stood herself up and put a soothing hand on Duke's head. The dog sat, tall and alert, and sniffed the air curiously. He watched the surrounding Elves with a keen eye.

Arwen strode forward and took Aila's hands in her own. "We were afraid," she confided. "We were afraid that you might not be able to return. I am so glad to see you again!" Aila told her that she herself was glad to find the passage still open to her. As she said it, she turned to glance at the mirror. The clock was frozen, as expected, at 11:18 PM.

"Sælrieth!" cried several of the Elves at once, and several fell to their knees and bowed their heads before her. Her cheeks colored, wishing that they would stand but unable to bring herself to ask it. One Elf rose and moved forward to greet her, he offered his hand and when she lifted hers to shake his, he instead grasped her hand tightly in both of his and bowed low. "I am Lindir," he offered and lifted his head back to smile at her. He turned to Duke, who was watching the Elf warily.

"_Mae govannen, Tarthalion_!" he said, kneeling and offering his palm to the dog. Duke sniffed the Elf cautiously, paused, glanced up at Aila, and then wagged his tail in an encouraging manner.

Several more of the Elves came and presented themselves to her, kneeling and bowing and taking her hand tightly in their own. The names came so quickly and so steadily, and in such an accent unfamiliar to her, that she had no hope of remembering any of them. After some time like this, Arwen approached again. "You must be weary, Aila. Will you stay on this side of the mirror with us now? Are you satisfied that you may stay?"

"Yes," Aila responded, "and I'm ready to sleep."

Arwen led her to a bedchamber and Aila gladly fell down onto the feather mattress. Duke leapt onto the bed and curled up beside her to sleep. She wrapped her arms around his neck and quickly fell asleep, breathing into his soft fur, exhausted.


	5. The Light Bearer

A Note From the Author: Thanks to Emzy2K10 and treenaballereenuhhh for the encouragement. For Chrismeraldina, I hope this version is as pleasing, if not more so, for you. I am currently trying to figure out the best way to add translations for the Sindarin. Sadly, footnotes appear awkward. My source is The Real Sindarin Phrasebook on Merin Essi ar Quenteli.

. . .

Ch. 5 The Light Bearer

The following morning brought the embarrassment and discomfort that Aila had feared and expected. Immediately upon leaving her room, dressed in the same jeans and a sweater as the day before, she was the center of each Elf's attention. Their bows and affectations made her blush and she tried her hardest to dissuade them from any and all attentions, but the more she resisted the more she felt she insulted the Elves concerned. She found at length that she could not simply avoid them, or walk away from them, or refuse to acknowledge their attentions. There was solace to be found, however, with Arwen. Aila had the distinct feeling that her being the Light Bearer (or not, she stoutly reminded herself) was not so likely to change the way that Arwen spoke with her, and in fact the two of them got on quite well. Generously, Arwen allowed Aila's presence at her side and even expressed curiosity in where Aila had come from. Obliging gladly, Aila described to Arwen the modern technologies which sat just on the other side of the mirror: she told of computers and cell phones, airplanes and automobiles, of air-conditioning and electricity.

"What wonders of magic your people have wrought, Aila!" the Elf exclaimed. The two were sitting comfortably on a bench in the House's foremost garden, Arwen listening attentively to Aila's description of electricity (though her powers of description were decidedly poor).

"Well," pondered Aila, putting a hand to her temple, "we generally don't call it magic. We tend to use the word 'science.'" Arwen took great delight in this new word.

Aila spent the next fifteen days in Rivendell in this manner, remaining close to Arwen and in the short time the two become rather passable, though not particularly close, friends. Occasionally, when worry overwhelmed her, Aila would rush back into the room where the mirror stood. Its clock always read 11:18 PM, _1 Oct 2010_, never fail, no matter how many days had passed.

Duke was allowed to wander about according to his own will and interests after his first few days in Rivendell. He had taken quickly to the Elves and Aila felt that it was safe to let him roam where he would in their presence. The Elves greatly admired Duke and he became a quick favorite among them. They had emphatic delight in his lithe, strong body, his intelligence and keen eyes, and not least of all his jubilant vivacity. Often, Aila could look outside to the wide lawns and see Duke there playing with several Elves, who laughed and sang and merrily chased the dog about the grounds.

The late afternoon sun of the 16th of October found Aila lying on a stone bench, relishing in the feeling of its warmth on her skin. She had already passed some time in this inactivity and while she had meant to read a book, it was laid quite forgotten on the ground beside her as she closed her eyes against the sun and lost herself in tireless thought. She was engaged in philosophizing over the elven concept of time (did their days pass markedly or was everything a blur of constantly moving parts to the Immortal?), and listening to Duke barking happily in the distance, when a shadow came over her. She started, opened her eyes and sat up quickly to see who had stood over her.

"I ride out, my Lady," stated the Elf before her, who she instantly saw was Glorfindel. "Immediately. To seek the Ring-Bearer and his Company." He was an elf-lord and, since he spent no small amount of time in Arwen's company, she had gotten to know him quite well. He had, at first, been a pain to Aila, but as soon as she could convince him not to call her Sælrieth, he was infinitely more agreeable to her. She opened her mouth to respond but his words preceded any of her own, an interruption he apologized for with a slight bow of his head: "Gandalf is come and Elrond requests that you attend him as swiftly as you may. I would not," he added hastily and with immense regret, "miss so momentous an occasion ... but, I am bound to my duty." And before she could stop him, he fell to his knees before her and clasped one of her hands in both of his. He bowed his head so that his forehead nearly touched their grasped hands. In a second's time he rose and was gone.

She turned to see him meet the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, and all three hurried in the direction of the stables. A moment's thought told her where they were going and to what purpose. Glorfindel, she knew, would find Frodo and the rest just in time. As she watched Glorfindel disappear into the stable, there exited some dozen new elves, all with bright golden hair and clothed in shades of green. At their head, a tall and lean elf with a short bow strapped across his back. He walked with his company quickly and purposefully into the House.

Aila stood and rearranged her flowing skirt as she prepared to go inside. Arwen had had several dresses specially made for Aila, since no elven dresses could be found that fit her properly. Aila was glad for the proper clothing since she liked to convince herself that wearing the proper attire helped her blend in. This, of course, was an absurd notion because even her dark hair betrayed her, as she was one of only five in Rivendell with such dark shades of brown on their mantles. She squared her shoulders and made for the House.

On her way, she found Arwen waiting for her and the elf grasped her hand and pulled her inside, leading her along the hallways to where, Aila assumed, her father and the wizard were. "He came this morning," Arwen said, quite breathless. "He has been resting and is now ready for you. He will open the box."

Though Aila's feet moved automatically, her mind froze. She had been spending all her mental energy on waiting for Frodo and on proving to the elves that she was not the Light Bearer. However, as the moment came upon her, she wondered fearfully if she really was not the Light Bearer, if she could not possess this gift that was stowed so carefully in a box that could only be opened by a wizard, would the elves allow her to remain in Middle Earth? Would they force her back through the mirror, or worse? Would she never have the opportunity to see Frodo and the Ring? Indeed, it seemed to her now that the most she could wish for was to see Frodo off on his perilous journey and then return, insignificant, to her home.

Her fear closed her lips tight and she wordlessly followed Arwen into a great hall. Elves were pouring into it from all sides as they heard the news, assembling in the room that was to reveal Aila, Light Bearer or not. Duke's head peeked out from between elven legs, watching, head slanted curiously.

Elrond stood in the center of the room, beside him rested a large ornate chest, carved of wood and wrought with gold filigree and edgework. The feet of the chest rested solidly on the ground, each a paw with seven clawed toes, and on the other side of the chest, tall and venerable, stood Gandalf the Grey. The entire room was filled with the low rumble of many elves speaking, whispering, unable to contain their interest and excitement. Elrond raised his hands in the air, palms flat to the rising tide of speech, and the wave of sound ebbed to nothing. Only small shufflings were heard in the room and, Aila guessed, the loud thump of her own heart.

"Today," began Elrond, in his deep, somber voice, "we open that which has not been opened for centuries, indeed since its making." A loud rumble erupted from the gathered elves again, their high voices raised, unable to contain the sound of their wonder. After a few moments, they subsided again. Elrond continued to speak, as to Aila it seemed the occasion demanded it, and he spoke of She that they awaited, the Light Bearer, whose Child would lead the elves to the Undying Lands, forsaking forever their homes in Middle Earth. His speech flowed forth but Aila could not listen. Her mind moved swiftly though she knew there was nothing to be done. She waited, standing before Elrond and Gandalf and the chest, in the middle of a wide circle and surrounded by the Elves of Rivendell.

Suddenly, Gandalf demanded her attention. "Who is it," he asked, "that requires my skill to open this chest?"

It was a part of the ceremony, she thought, and screwed up her courage to answer. "I do," she said, her voice came out stronger than she had expected it to. It certainly sounded more assured than she felt. "I do, Aila Lundgren of ... of Boston," she said finally. A low murmur erupted from the gathered Elves, never had they heard of a land so foreign to them. Aila looked to Gandalf for some comfort, but his face was grave and worry creased his brow. He turned to the chest and raised his hands, staff held horizontally to the floor. He began, in a commanding voice, to say the spell which would open the chest.

While he commanded the chest, Aila suddenly felt weak, as though some nausea overtook her. Her knees felt about to buckle and her vision blurred, thoughts swam half-formed and lazy through her mind. She had a sudden, imprecise vision of a hallway made of thick glass. She stood at its beginning and saw that on one side beyond the glass wall was a vast blue sky, through which birds flew and cavorted, airplanes soared, space shuttles rocketed, and leaves floated gently down from nowhere in particular. On the left beyond the glass there was a deep blue ocean, filled with all manner of whales, fish, and sea monsters, kelp waving lazily in the tide.

Her vision ended, Aila consciously came back into the great hall in the Last Homely House, and her knees gave way beneath her. Before her knees hit the ground, however, an Elf rushed forward from the mass and wrapped a long hand around her elbow, the other placed on her waist, and he bodily pulled her back up until she was standing again. She gave him an appreciative look and she saw the short bow strapped across his back, she realized he was one of the elves she had seen enter after Glorfindel's quick departure. His blue eyes glittered as he released her and he melted back into the gathering.

Aila lifted her eyes to see Elrond bend over the chest, now standing open. Gandalf stepped to the side, behind the chest, and regarded Aila with a serious look in his eyes, his lips pursed tightly. She swallowed hard. She watched, a lump forming in her throat, as Elrond pulled a long, thin object from the chest: a sword in its scabbard. Elrond turned to face her, lifting the sword in both hands above his head. He addressed the assembled: "Behold! _N__úadin_, Sword of Light."

If Aila had been holding her breath, expecting something spectacular to happen, nothing did.

The Elves remained silent and, with purposeful steps, Elrond walked to Aila. He stopped in front of her and held out the sword for her to take. She reached out with shaking fingers, holding her breath in stilled lungs until her flesh touched the scabbard. The scabbard itself was old, worn, soft leather, filigreed like the chest with delicate designs, subtle and unnoticeable if one did not look for them closely. When her fingers wrapped around the scabbard and she accepted fully its weight from Elrond, and the sword left his hands ... still did nothing happen.

"Only the Light Bearer may remove the sword from its sheath," said Gandalf, as Elrond and the Elves all watched. Slowly, she put her right hand on the hilt of the sword, her smallest finger resting against the pommel stone, a bright emerald gem that seemed to glow of its own accord. She exerted the smallest degree of pressure and the blade began to slowly release from its sheath.

The sword came cleanly from its scabbard and, fully released, rested delicately in her hand. It felt light as a feather and she held it aloft, marveling at its brightness even as it had sat unused and in darkness for centuries. She lifted her left hand and brought the flat of the sword to rest against her palm, about midway along the blade. As it touched her skin, she heard an indistinct humming and the blade began to glow where her hand touched it. Her hand felt warm and she lifted the sword again before her. The light and warmth grew along the blade until it exuded heat and was brighter than the sun. With sudden and unprecedented force, its white light pulsed and exploded outward over the onlookers, momentarily blinding all those in the room, and Aila saw Elrond raise a hand to block his face from its light and heat. The brightness subsided and in her hand she held a softly glowing sword. Shocked, the gathered Elves stood momentarily staring at Aila and the sword. After moments of shocked silence, they all began falling to their knees, lifting their hands in praise. Even Elrond bowed his head and sank to the floor in front of her, holding his hands tightly to his heart.

All around her the noise began again, the Elves sang songs she knew were for her, many held tears in their eyes, some smiled, some laughed, and above all she could hear they were calling out to her, "Light Bearer!" and "Sælrieth!" However, there also came from a small group of Elves some words she might not have heard, for their party was fewer in number than the rest, but their voices rang clear and beautiful as they invocated in adoration:

"_Eglerio, Aearvenel! Na vedui! Intyalle vuin!"_


	6. Intyalle

A Note From the Author: You can find translations for the Sindarin I use at the bottom of the chapters from now on. Thanks for you reviews & support!

. . .

Ch. 6 Intyalle

"_Eglerio, Aearvenel! Na vedui! Intyalle vuin!"_

At this last exclamation, Gandalf looked sharply at Aila and Elrond rose swiftly to his feet. The wizard, as though he had just caught himself off guard, began to walk swiftly past Aila and beckoned her to follow. She numbly walked after him, and the Elves rose to let them pass. Many bowed and some reached out worshipful fingers to touch her as she passed. She and the wizard gained a private room not far from the great hall, she paused on entering and he began to pace, his back to her and suddenly unaffected by her presence.

Swiftly, he turned and said curtly, "Put that away!" She realized she was still holding the sword, bare steel, before her. Blushing, she set it back in its scabbard and placed it upon the table in the middle of the room. Without ceremony she sat in a chair, sure that she could not continue to stand and that the wizard would be some time in speaking. Presently, she saw Elrond outside of the door. The elf-lord cast a stern and wondering look upon her, and closed the door.

She thought maybe half an hour had passed before Gandalf finally turned to her, and she was nervous and afraid, awed by the wizard before her. "That!" he began sharply, without any precedent, "That is a skill which is rare and has not been seen upon this Middle Earth in quite some time. And of a Woman, no less! Not Maia, not Elf, but mortal Man. How can it be?" He asked the question of her but turned away again before she could think of answering. "Mind Walker!" he exclaimed, still in his own thought.

"Mind Walker?" she repeated these words to herself, quite under her breath, and had a fading glimpse of her vision, of that glass-walled hallway bounded by Sea and Sky.

"Yes," replied Gandalf, his attention turned to her again. He regarded her for a minute and she could see that his mind was working vigorously. With a sigh, he sat himself in the chair opposite her. "_Intyalle_," he drew out the word in a breathless accent. "Or, in the Westron tongue, Dolràor." He turned his head though his eyes remained rooted on her. "According to elven lore, the Light Bearer of the Elves has many names but I did not know Intyalle was one of them."

"What does it mean?"

"It means, my dear, that you possess a particularly powerful and nuanced skill. A Mind Walker has, in fact, many skills which can bend another's mind and will to her own, or insert misleading thoughts, or cause pain to her enemies. There are as well many skills which you may possess that I am not knowledgeable of." At this sentence he regarded her carefully again. She thought again of the Glass Hall. If it were true – or even possible – whose mind, then, did she see? Aila was brought back to present by a surprising laugh that flew from Gandalf's looks. "What elven mischief," he cried, blue eyes twinkling as he shook his head at her, "that the Light Bearer, whose prophetic power lay chiefly in the power of her Heart, should be such a woman as is wholly occupied in her Mind!" Though Aila did not understand, it appeared to her that Gandalf took a great liking to this, and his attentions toward her warmed considerably.

He took great care to explain to her what it meant to be Intyalle, though when she asked him how she was to access such skills, he could not answer her. "It is not my domain to know the minds of others or how you might access them or affect them," was his repeated reply. The two sat for some time in silence while Aila thought over what information had been presented to her. Her mind reeled back to one particular comment.

"Many names?" she suddenly asked, incredulous, and Gandalf raised a wiry eyebrow. "I cannot be nearly important enough to have many names! Not as you, or as Aragorn – as both of _you_ deserve the dignity of the multiple names you are given ..." Gandalf's brow darkened and he looked at her through narrowed eyes.

"What know you of Aragorn?" his question was urgent and concerned.

"That he has many names," she responded slowly, unsure what to say. "Strider, Aragorn, the Dunadán, Elessar ... And I know you have many names as well: Olórin, Gandalf the Grey, Gandalf Stormcrow, Mithrandir. Having many names is a device ..." she stuttered, could she mention that it was a _literary_ device?, "it ... it denotes your importance." And a pause. "But it cannot be that I share this with as great and powerful men as yourself and Aragorn!"

"Olórin." He turned the word in his mouth for a few minutes. "It is long since I heard that name, or was called by it. You know very many things which should not be in your power to know! Tell me more – what other secrets have you hidden away in the recesses of your mind? You know what I speak of!" he added accusingly, and when she indicated, in a mouse's speech, that she did not, he asked, "What of Frodo?" His demeanor was intrigued and terrible, threatening and desperate. Aila realized that she was actually quite terrified of Gandalf in that moment. Her eyes strayed to the staff he held still in his hand: was she putting herself in danger by saying too much? If she stopped now, if she could stop now, would it serve any purpose other than to seal a death sentence?

"Frodo!" she responded, and tried to answer him quickly, "Strider! He – he is with Aragorn and they are headed here, to Rivendell. I guess they were on Weathertop not many days ago. But you were there!" she cried, trying to recall in her memory the exact events of that first book. "You were on Weathertop yourself, on the third? You fought the Nazgûl, as they have done now some days later! You were only ahead of them by a few days." His eyes were aflame with surprise. Aila hastened to tell him what he must want to know the most, through stuttering lips: "Frodo, Frodo will cross the Ford of Bruinen on the twentieth."

"And this the sixteenth!" he cried. "Do you know where they are? We must send out riders ..."

"Glorfindel will find them in time," she said, to soothe the worry in his face. He alarmed her, terrified her, and her tone all but begged him to spare her his wrath. It was that very tone which softened him. He sat more easily in the chair and his eyes dulled their flame. His gaze was gentle upon her.

"You know and see much which I cannot yet know. You are a gift to myself as you are a gift to the Elves. I thank you for your counsel, it is only so difficult that we must await the arrival of our dear hobbit." Gandalf pulled out his pipe and put it to his lips, tapping it there for some time in thought before he remembered that he meant to smoke. He puffed away silently for some time, lost in the doings of his mind and forgetting Aila's immediate presence. Aila herself sat placidly against the back of her chair, but her mind also was not at rest. She wondered if she had done a great misdeed in revealing what she had to Gandalf – had she changed the course of the story now, with that little misstep? What would be the consequences of her weakness? And though she could not blame herself for being unable to resist Gandalf, perhaps she could have been more careful in her words to not incite his interest at the first. She thought long and hard, and eventually decided that she had not changed anything. Indeed, she remembered that Gandalf and Elrond knew of Frodo's coming, thus forming the flood, and as such they either would have become aware of his coming well before his arrival of their own devices or through her telling, which perhaps was not recognized in the story. Either way, she had not effected any change in the course of events. Frodo would come, Gandalf and Elrond would raise the flood, and Elrond would heal Frodo of his wound. She started, leaning forward in her chair, opening her hands to Gandalf.

"Frodo has been struck by Morgul-blade and he is Fading, but not quickly. He will last some time yet. When he crosses the Ford there must be treatments, whatever such as you have, ready for him!" He did not waste a moment in calling Elrond into the room and rapidly explaining what Aila had just told him, and Elrond, though taken quite by surprise, held a swift conversation with the wizard and rushed from the room to prepare for Frodo's arrival and treatment.

Gandalf stood from his chair and took a few steps to the door. Presently, he paused and turned to Aila. "You have told me much, and I am glad for your knowledge and assistance. And though I sense that you know quite a bit more on the subject than you have thus revealed to me, I do not think it wise that you tell me any more."

"I understand," she answered, and he left the room with a parting glance, but no good-bye.

. . .

Translations:

_Eglerio, Aearvenel! Na vedui! Intyalle vuin!_ = Glorify, Aearvenel (name)! At last! Blessed Intyalle (title)!


	7. Taint of Minas Morgul

Ch. 7 Taint of Minas Morgul

Aila sequestered herself in her room increasingly over the following three days. Her conversation with Gandalf had nearly driven from her mind the event immediately preceding it, but as she stepped out of that room where their conversation had taken place she was once more enveloped in elven adoration. It was from this constant adoration that she fled. The Elves had begun to present her with gifts and tokens, the males would present her with flowers and sweets and combs for her hair and the females, though a rarer occurrence, would give her pretty scarves and silken handkerchiefs. They sang to her as she walked past them: slow, sorrowful songs and beautiful, trilling songs of gladness.

She had been walking through the gardens with Arwen when she encountered the last straw. An elf-lord came before her and presented her with a jeweled ring, a large sapphire set in the center and ringed with intricate silver. He spoke to her rapidly in breathless Sindarin and pressed the ring eagerly into her palm. Aila started and made as if to return the ring to its giver when Arwen stayed her hand. "You must accept," she told her, eyes flashing a warning. "To reject it would be to give him great insult. He means it as a token for the Light Bearer." Reluctantly and with deep guilt, Aila took the ring and since that event kept herself as much as possible to her own chamber. Duke, however, still came and went as he pleased and as soon as Aila's absence was felt throughout the House, the Doberman began to return at night with wondrous gifts tied to his collar. First was a new collar itself, silver rings wrought thin and delicate, fluid and soft to the touch, with a musical ring that heralded his coming. Duke would come back laden with flowers, with scarves tied to his collar, and even some jewels that jangled merrily from his silver collar. Aila couldn't help but laugh at him when he came through the door such adorned with a look that he was quite pleased with himself.

It was then the evening of the twentieth that a great commotion erupted from outside the House, bells rang and elven voices rose in shouts, clamoring and clanging and calling to each other urgently. Aila, understanding the import of the calamity, rushed from her room and out of the House. Following the torrent of Elves, she joined their crowd along the road from the Ford of Bruinen in time to see Asfaloth, Glorfindel's steed, trot carefully towards the House, Frodo lie limp across his back and he was led by Gandalf. Elrond walked beside the horse and kept his hands on Frodo. Aila saw Elrond's lips move rapidly but could not make out his words and she had the impression that he was speaking too low for any to hear. The procession had passed long before any of the gathered Elves began to break away from the murmuring crowd.

Aila wasn't sure what to do now that Frodo was in Rivendell. Surely the others wouldn't be far behind, and then what? Suddenly, an elf appeared at her side and wrapped a long hand around her elbow, pulling her towards him. She looked up, startled, and saw that it was the same elf that had kept her from falling to her knees as Gandalf opened the chest holding her sword. His eyes were bright and sorrowful. He uttered only one word: "Gandalf." Her feet moved to follow him automatically. He did not release his hold on her arm, but his fingers were soft and gentle on her skin.

"Ah," said Gandalf as she was led into the room, "it is as you said: Frodo, here on the twentieth and stabbed by Morgul-blade." His brow was creased in worry and he watched Elrond dolefully for a few moments, who still stood over the hobbit speaking low and swift, before glancing at the Elf who had led her in. "_Gell 'hannon, Legolas_." Aila turned and stared at the blond elf beside her. Legolas? Her mind reeled. She had not mentally prepared herself for meeting any of the Fellowship, though she chided herself that she should have thought on it.

Beside her Legolas bowed to the wizard and said, "_Gell nîn_." He removed himself from Gandalf's immediate presence but did not leave the room. He stood, as a sentry, close to the door.

Gandalf gestured that she should sit in a chair opposite to him, across the bed that held Frodo, groaning, at its center. His lips were blue and his skin pale and cold. Even sitting near him, Aila felt the chill of his body coming in erratic waves against her bare skin and face. Aila watched as an elf-maiden entered the room and handed a small pot and brush to Elrond, who began to paint a pale green substance on Frodo's exposed shoulder. She watched, wide-eyed, as the festering wound began to close.

"Wait!" she cried, "there is still a piece of that evil in his shoulder! A notch of the blade broke off inside of his shoulder and remains in his body. You cannot close the wound around it!" Elrond paused, set his lips together in a thin line, and set aside the pot and brush. He laid long, thin fingers against Frodo's skin and began to pull the wound open again, still whispering with fervor. Frodo screamed and writhed, but remained unconscious. At length, Elrond laid his palm of his right hand flat against the wound, a Blue Ring flashing brightly on his finger, and the elf-lord pressed on top of that hand with his left, and gave a loud cry of invocation. He lifted his hand and Aila saw that a small, almost insignificant, piece of bloody steel rested in the center of his palm. Gandalf rose at once and the shard of metal burst into flame and smoke. It disappeared from Elrond's palm and was no more. Gandalf settled back in his chair and looked hard at Aila.

"I believe that only your skill will save Frodo now," he confided, his eyes turned to gaze at the hobbit. "There is a taint in his mind which cannot be removed by even a Healing hand so powerful as Elrond possesses. You alone, I think, can remove the stain in his mind."

"I don't know how," she resisted, her eyes set on the face of the hobbit, who though now was free of the knife shard was still not free of his illness. She did not watch as Elrond began again his attempts to close and heal the physical wound in his shoulder.

Gandalf shook his head remorsefully. "I fear there is no instruction or advice I can give you in this, nor can any other in this Middle Earth. It is the most that we can hope for, therefore, that you _try_."

She stared at Frodo for some minutes, thinking deep. Was this what she had been brought to Middle Earth for? If she could not heal Frodo now, would his purpose be lost? Would the Ring find its way back to its Master if Frodo could not carry It? Aila lifted an unsteady hand to her mouth, resting her lips against her first knuckle, and knitted her eyebrows together as she studied Frodo's labored breaths. Opening her mouth and taking in a quick breath, she moved her hand over Frodo's and wrapped her fingers gently around his small hand. She wasn't sure why she did this, but the connection felt right to her and she hoped her instinct would guide her. Aila closed her eyes tightly.

At first, there was only the darkness behind her eyelids, but she internally she felt herself push outward, expanding beyond the bounds of her body, and out of the darkness there grew a pale grey light and she found herself standing once more in a long hallway. It was not, however, the glass-walled hall that she had seen previously, but this one looked actually rather like a hobbit hole, with large round windows on the left side that, she imagined, usually let in bright, cheerful sunlight. Now however there was a fog hanging beyond and a dull luster of moisture clung to the windows. It was painfully cold in the hall and all about her was a noise, persistent and insipid and dark. There was a voice talking, she was sure of it, murmuring and chanting in a sinister manner. She was not familiar with the language but recognized the tone and knew immediately that its taint was what she was meant to remove.

Fear swept over her and overwhelmed her, grown out of the sound of that voice as it washed over her and in the chill of the air and the damp darkness of the fog beyond the windows. Still, some small shred of determination kept her feet planted, and if it was barely enough to keep her from turning and running it was still enough, and she stayed.

She looked at her hands and found, surprised, that she carried a large clay urn, open in her hands, its lid held tightly to the side. Even as she looked at it, a silvery mist began to form, swirling and collected above that urn, and after condensing a little began to drain into the depths of the jar. The mist draining into the jar began to build greater density and flowed with increasing speed and force into the urn, and Aila struggled to hold the urn aloft against the pressing insistence of the mist. But she knew this was right, she knew she must catch all the swirling, dense, dark mist into the urn and close it. Swirling, collecting, draining, and swirling some more, it took no small amount of time for the mist to drain completely into the urn. When the last drop of its remnant fell into the jar, Aila slammed the lid on top and held it shut. There was no sound now in the hall but the creak of the floorboards beneath her feet, and she could just barely hear, though muffled and contained, that dark voice as it continued its whisperings from inside the urn. Now she began to think of how she was meant to remove the urn from this place, or better yet, how to destroy it. Aila focused her gaze on the urn, holding its lid tightly shut, and concentrated hard on it, as if hoping it could give her an answer.

It presently burst into dark red flame and its fire shot upward several feet above her head. The heat and intensity burned her palm where the urn touched her skin and she cried out in surprise and pain. Vaguely, she felt a hand on her shoulder, but when she turned to look there was no one behind her. As the fire subsided, she looked back in her hands and the urn was gone entirely. She listened intently to find that the whisperings had ceased and a prolonged look out the windows suggested to her that the fog was fading as well, very slowly but definitely receding. The entire scene began to fade again to darkness.

Aila opened her eyes and gave a blank look to Gandalf, who studied her intently. Pain seared from her left hand and she opened her fist gingerly to reveal angry red burns on the soft skin there. She made a small exclamation of surprise and, though Elrond did not stop his ministrations of Frodo, she saw Legolas quickly dip a finger into the pot he held and wipe some of the green paste across her palm. A quick glance revealed his other hand clenched quite tightly on her shoulder, but its pressure was soft and comforting. The paste soothed the burning in her hand and in a moment the pain subsided to a dull, unnoticeable ache, and she let the hand fall into her lap. Looking again to Frodo, she fancied that his skin looked less sallow and that his breathing was more even than it had been before.

She looked to Gandalf, who said nothing but kept his gaze steadily on her, watching her behavior and waiting. "I think," she began, and paused because her throat was scratchy and sore. She began again, "It is done." The wizard's eyes opened a bit wider in wonder and cautious disbelief, in response to which she could only nod encouragingly.

Abruptly, she felt exhausted and powerless, as though she had little strength left in her body. She let her head fall back to rest against the chair and closed her eyes softly. She heard, dimly as though through a fog, movement next to her, and a hand moved from her shoulder to her cheek, and then Gandalf's steady voice, as if in the distance, "Yes, I expect she will need to rest. She has taken great evil into herself and then destroyed it. It is a surprising strength and has proved invaluable to us now. Let her rest." And so she gave in herself to the sweet sleep that beckoned her.

. . .

_Gen 'hannon, Legolas _= Thank you, Legolas

_Gell nîn_ = It was my pleasure


	8. So Say the Wise

Ch. 8 So Say the Wise

Frodo's companions followed not more than a day behind him and their coming into Rivendell was met with gladness and celebration. Aila was not able to catch more than a glimpse of the Ranger and the hobbits, all three of which rushed immediately to Frodo's bedchamber, and the former disappeared somewhere within the House (she guessed to find Arwen). Glorfindel, who travelled with them at the end of their leg, was greeted immediately by several of the Elves and their conversation looked rapid and fervent. After a few exchanged sentences, Glorfindel looked like he was anxious to break the conversation, so shortly he disengaged and began to walk swiftly away.

Aila moved to intercept his path and when he saw her, though his mouth set on a hard line, his eyes shone with gladness. As he approached, he stopped short and bowed low before her, and straightening himself again said proudly with a hand to his heart, "_Guren linna cened len, Sælrieth_!" Though Aila did not understand exactly what he said, she heard the greeting and compliment within it. She asked if he would let her walk with him back to the House and if he would tell her the tale of his actions since their last meeting. He acceded with a slight bow of his head and began to tell her of his westward ride in search of Frodo's party. Although she knew the story, she listened attentively to his telling. After he was through, he said, "I am told that Elrond will hold a Council once the hobbit is well enough to attend."

"Yes, I imagine so," she smiled. "There is much to discuss."

Unexpectedly, Glorfindel stopped walking and turned to face her. "I am also deeply regretful that I missed your reception of _Núadin_. I have been informed that it was the purest of spectacles." His tone was serious and somber, but Aila had to look at his stony face until she was convinced he was not secretly laughing.

"Yes, indeed." Smiling, she turned and began walking again, and he followed. "I'm afraid that I don't remember too much of it. I was quite surprised myself."

"Surely, the sight of you with such a weapon would be fierce."

Again, Aila had to turn her face to regard his expression before she was satisfied he wasn't joking in the least. She laughed. "You are definitely mistaken, Glorfindel. I think it was instead comical, quite like an orc holding a book."

The grave look that he now gave her brought a smile to Aila's lips but the solemnity of his nature could not bring her to laugh at him. "To have such a beautiful sword, wrought for your own hand and yours alone, and to be unable to wield such a powerful weapon is troubling indeed."

She adopted his somber expression and confided cautiously, though very sarcastically, "There weren't many sword fights in the neighborhood I grew up in." He nodded sincerely.

"Your sword, I think, is spelled to protect you and it will act of its own accord in many occasions. However, I believe that you must at least know how to wield such a weapon. I would be honored to instruct your training."

Before she could gladly accept, a third voice addressed them and another Elf stepped forward to interrupt their tête-à-tête. "I fear, _mellon_," he said, and Aila saw that it was Legolas, "that your efforts, though valiant and indeed in the proper sense discriminating, are possibly wasted on a woman such as this. Her strength, I beg you will see, lies not in swordplay but in strength of character and Mind." He smiled at Aila and tapped his temple in a light manner, then made a slight bow to Glorfindel, the last of which seemed intentionally ironic.

"Regardless," Aila said quickly, trying to rebuff Legolas and turn her attention back to Glorfindel, "it will be important for me to learn so that I won't, at the very least, drop it on my foot and lose a few toes." Glorfindel looked horrified by such an idea and she saw Legolas' smile widen.

"_Ci vain a hael, Aearvenel_," and with that Legolas bowed quickly before her and excused himself from their conversation. Aila promptly turned back to Glorfindel and arranged that they should meet early in the morning the next day on the lawn so that he might show her how to carry and use her sword. He left her as well, with a final bow and a sorrowful, "_Guren 'niniatha nan lû ir in ad-genithanc_."

In the coming days, Frodo did recover quite well and Aila had the opportunity to see him from a distance as he toured the House with Bilbo and the other three hobbits. When Frodo was well enough to attend, Elrond held a great feast in his honor, which Aila was glad to attend and marvel at the customs and beauty of the Elves. As the eating came to a close, Aila followed the Elves and elf-friends into the great hall of fire and she listened to the hauntingly beautiful songs and the soft, velvet elven voices that enveloped her spirit and comforted her as she listened. Beside her, Duke lay sleeping happily on a plush pillow that one of the Elves had brought particularly for the Doberman. Firelight glittered against the jewels on his collar.

_A Elbereth Gilthoniel,  
silivren penna miriel  
o menel aglar elenath!  
Na-chaered palan-diriel  
o galadhremmin ennorath,  
Fanuilos, le linnathon  
nef aear, si nef aearon!_

The soft hymn lulled her almost to sleep and she leaned heavily against the wall where she sat. She closed her eyes and gave in to the sweet harmonies. When she woke, several hours later, the crowd in the hall had thinned and Bilbo sat in the center of the room reciting the poem he had composed on Eärendil. And a single white amaryllis flower sat delicately in her curled fingers.

. . .

The Council of Elrond followed only a few days later. Aila, of course, had not been invited to the Council, and though she wished she could be present to hear and see all that there was to experience, she already knew the very words which were being exchanged in that grove: Gollum had escaped from Mirkwood, the forces of Mordor were pressing on Gondor, and Frodo – dear little Frodo – would take the Ring to Mount Doom.

She lounged on the lawn while the Council took place, idly playing tug-o'-war with Duke and wondering if she could listen to the Council through one of its attendants' minds. It wasn't worth the invasion, she decided, since she knew precisely what was being said and to what end. More expedient to her circumstance, she thought, was mulling over what could be the next chapter of her own story. She had no idea what to expect of her life in Rivendell once the Fellowship departed on their journey. Aila spent much idle time in this line of thought, long after Duke had laid down beside her in the grass to enjoy the sun, and she was no further in developing her expectations so she gave up entirely. Sitting up on the grass, she began to wipe stray blades of grass from her clothing when Glorfindel, who had the habit of sneaking up on her, suddenly appeared.

"You are requested to attend Lord Elrond and Mithrandir," he said as he bowed to her. He helped her stand and then he woke the dog, saying, "_Tolo, Tarthalion_," and Aila hurried to follow the striding Elf and trotting dog.

As she entered the room where Glorfindel led her, Elrond opened his mouth to speak but Gandalf stopped him with a restraining hand. There was a glint in the wizard's eye when he said, "We have just had a Council, Aila, Light Bearer. Do you know what passed in that meeting?"

Aila knew that he was testing her and wanted to see if her prophetic skill, which he obviously considered displayed prior to Frodo's coming, was still intact and functioning. She thought for a moment on wiping her expression blank and pretending that she hadn't the faintest idea, but deep within her she knew that Gandalf would never fall for such a lie. As such, she told both Elrond and Gandalf that she did know what had taken place and took great care to re-tell the conversations of their own Council to them in detail. Elrond, who had not witnessed her previous display, could not help but express his astonishment as she spoke.

"It is as I thought," replied Gandalf when she had finished. "Elrond and I have convened here to discuss the individuals that should join Frodo in his quest. I have asked you here to seek your counsel in this matter. Though Elrond and I are among the Wise, we are not without our insecurities and I am afraid that I desire very highly to use you as a safety measure in our decision process."

The two began to discuss at length the details of the fellowship they were forming. After hours of deliberation and argument, it was settled, as Elrond suggested, that nine should make up the company: Frodo, Sam, as were already decided, and seven others. As Elrond put it, the "Nine Walkers shall be set against the Nine Riders" of the Nazgûl. Gandalf looked at Aila, who nodded, and the two continued.

"If we mean to fill seven vacancies," said the wizard, "then three of those choices at least should be easy. We must choose from those at our disposal one of each of the Free Races: an Elf, a Dwarf, and a Man." Aila sat idly content to watch and listen as the two discussed at length and for several hours. Nothing further was decided upon in that sitting and, over the following days and weeks, Aila was called back frequently to attend them as they pondered the choices before them. Sometimes their three was supplemented with another or even two more, sometimes Glorfindel before he rode out to survey the lands surrounding Rivendell with Elladan and Elrohir, more frequently Aragorn, sometimes Glóin, and a great many others attended the small meetings. Eventually it was settled that Aragorn should continue with the Ring-Bearer, and Gimli for the Dwarves, and Legolas for the Elves. Boromir was added shortly after as a matter of convenience, since the man would be traveling in the company's direction to Gondor anyway and, as a stout and valiant Man, could offer his protection and assistance. After many more meetings, it was decided, or rather reluctantly settled upon, that Gandalf would be required to travel with the company as well. "I should be wanted elsewhere," he said in acknowledgement, "but it cannot be helped. I think I should come along." This brought the decided number of the company to seven, and the two Wise counselors were hard put to decide among the remaining two.

Aila, in interest of time, for it was quickly approaching the month of December, said quietly, "I think that your decision will be made for you in the interest of those remaining two. I think you would be hard pressed to detain the going of Frodo's younger companions." Elrond immediately denied that he could allow such a thing to pass, as to have four hobbits on such a dangerous mission, but Gandalf said simply,

"It is high time that we put greater faith and trust into the Shire-folk. Their strength is remarkable indeed."

Feeling thus satisfied that everything was decided, Aila motioned to stand and quit the room when Elrond spoke quickly to detain her. "There is another matter in which I request Gandalf's wisdom, but which I think I cannot ignore for any longer. You, Sælrieth, are meant for Lórien, where you should have already gone. As soon as the riders return with news regarding the safety of our surrounding lands and tidings of the Nine, you shall have to be sent as soon as is possible to our kinsmen there. I only hope that we have not kept you in Rivendell overlong."

She froze and then settled back into her chair. She would be going to Lórien, which was surely a good and exciting thing, but she was afraid of what Elrond and Gandalf could shortly say on the matter.

Elrond continued, "I think, though it may be best to send you with a separate Host of Elves to see you to Lórien, that it should not be wise to send two parties out into the Wilderness in such troubling times and, for all the very same reasons which we have discussed in the previous weeks regarding the small size of Frodo's company, I think it is also prudent to send as few of our people abroad as possible."

"Then she will join the Company, as they are meant for Lórien ere long as well," said Gandalf plaintively.

"No!" objected Aila, "That doesn't make sense! To add me would make the Fellowship ten, and make it too large. It is meant to be Nine, always Nine. Nine against the Nine that are evil."

"I daresay that you would not actually be a member of the Company," replied Gandalf after some time, "but it seems wise indeed to me that I should have access to your counsel, at least as far as Lórien. I should be very glad for it. And Elrond's words ring quite true – that it would be foolish to send so many abroad in such dangerous times and with such dangerous intent. There are quite as many who would wish you dead as would wish to kill Frodo and take the Ring." For some reason, this seemed to decide the topic, though Aila hotly debated it for some time. Desperate, she tried a new tactic.

"But surely it is not so important that I go to Lórien so soon. Perhaps I can stay here while the Fellowship gets, say, a good head start? And then I can travel with a small host of Elves to Lórien – entirely separate of the Nine," she added pointedly. Elrond shook his head sorrowfully.

"You should have been sent to Lórien immediately upon your arrival here. It was only my fear that stayed my hand in sending you. We here are but the Watchers of the Mirror, and your true Seat is in Lórien. It cannot be helped. Once the riders we sent out have returned, we shall send Frodo and his Company, and yourself Sælrieth, south." Unable to dissuade them, and actually inciting Gandalf to quick anger, Aila was forced to depart unhappily from their counsel and ponder her fate. What consequences would her addition to the Fellowship incur? And though both Elrond and Gandalf insisted she was not a member of the Company, but would utilize its protection, was not wholly convincing to her. Any way that she did the math, the Nine plus her equaled ten. And ten was very, very wrong.

. . .

_Guren linna cened len, Sælrieth _= My heart sings to see you, Light Bearer!

_Mellon_ = friend

_Ci vain a hael, Aearvenel _= You are both wise and beautiful, Aearvenel (name)

_Guren 'niniatha nan lû ir in ad-genithanc_ = My heart shall weep until it sees you again

_Tolo, Tarthalion_ = Come, Tarthalion (name)


	9. White Amaryllis

Ch. 9 White Amaryllis

The elf-lord Glorfindel returned from his journey, scouring the Wilderness for signs of dark Servants and the Nine, a few days after Elrond had settled that Aila was to go to Lórien. Aila sought him out as soon as she could and they redoubled their sword-fighting lessons, which Aila had previously regarded as an enjoyable social event rather than important lessons of themselves. Now, however, with the idea that she was going to have to join the Fellowship as far as Lórien becoming firmer in her mind and in fact, she was desperate to be able to defend herself even a little bit.

It was for this reason that she found herself again on the wide lawn, standing opposite Glorfindel with Núadin in her hand, trying to look like she knew what she was doing even if she didn't. She thought she was making at least a passable show of it, but the fact was, and she knew deep down, that she wasn't. Though Glorfindel, as solemn and noble as ever, was patient and kind, Aila thought that her excessive inability tried his patience and she could see sometimes the frustration in his eyes. Of course he never acknowledged it, but Aila knew she was absolutely useless with a sword. It had taken a miracle to even be able to hold it correctly and not drop it after a few fervent swings. "It's useless," she said, defeated. "I can't do this and it was foolish to think that I could. I'm no swordmaster and can never be!"

"Please," said Glorfindel imploringly, and she could see that he wasn't willing to give up on his student, "give yourself some more time. I think you will improve with practice." Even Aila knew that he was being dishonest to make her feel better. "Come, stay in a ready stance and go on the offensive." He then commanded that she come at him again, which after a pause she obliged.

Inevitably, she failed to either go on the offensive or rebuke Glorfindel's attacks, and she threw Núadin to the ground in frustration. She heard laughter behind her and, twirling around where she stood, angrily saw that it was Legolas.

After a failed attempt to quell her rising anger, born of her frustration, she said loudly, "You mean to intimidate me, Legolas, by coming in all your state to watch me. But I will not be intimidated." At her last sentence, her voice came proud and bold from her mouth, feelings which were artificially produced.

"I will not say that you are mistaken," he responded, bowing his head slightly. "Glorfindel had arranged with me that I attend no small part of your practice here. If your lessons are to continue after our company has departed, it is Glorfindel's wish that I become your teacher. And," he continued, a smile growing on his lips, "though your display has most exquisitely demonstrated to me my poor fortune in this matter, I am bound by honor to I comply with promises made to Glorfindel, even as ignorant as they had been at the time of their giving."

Aila did not appreciate his joke.

Glorfindel sternly said that he thought she was improving at a swift rate, but Aila saw that this only seemed to increase Legolas' delight. The elf-lord bent to pick her sword up from the grass and he handed it back to her. As soon as she accepted it again, very reluctantly, he fell into a fighting stance and made to attack her. She lifted Núadin to defend herself, barely in time to repel his thin sword. He fought now against her with increased ferocity, whether in an effort to engage her emotions and inspire her to fight harder or because her skills were just so weak that she couldn't rebuff even a modest attack, Aila was unsure. Nonetheless, his sword clanged loudly against hers and she retreated as he advanced. Her arms ached and she felt sweat drip off her face, and her lack of skill and that taunting laughter from Legolas were enough to give rise to such frustration that she hadn't felt before. That frustration gave way to a flood of anger and, with a shout of rage, she pushed back against Glorfindel.

It was lucky that the swipe she took with her sword was so ill-aimed and missed the elf entirely because Glorfindel suddenly fell to his knees. He dropped his sword hastily and moved both hands to clutch his head. He cried out in pain: "_Ai! Næg!_" Aila, unsure of what she had done, took a step toward him, but through his onrush of pain he put his right palm before her, flat and restraining. As he did this, her body froze. Though after a moment the invisible force holding her body still broke, her lungs did not release from its hold and she fell to her knees, mirroring Glorfindel, and lifted a hand to her throat. Try as she might, she couldn't force air into her stiff lungs.

She heard Legolas shout something rapidly in Sindarin as he ran toward them, his voice held none of the humor it had but moments before. At Legolas' shout, Glorfindel dropped his upraised palm and looked anxiously at Aila, horror etched across his smooth features. As his hand dropped, the power of the elf-lord released her and her lungs expanded with sweet, cool air.

"I'm sorry," she choked, when she had gasped a few times to fill her lungs. "I don't know how to control it, this Mind power I have. I didn't mean to hurt you, you must know ..." Glorfindel acknowledged that he understood it and responded that he had never meant to hurt her either, in a terrified and remorseful voice, and said that he had been unable to think properly through the pain that had engulfed his head. The elf-lord then said that perhaps Legolas had been right before to say that Aila's strengths were far from physical skill. He then looked at Legolas and asked the latter to go seek Elrond in case any damage had been done to Aila. Legolas left rather quickly.

"It still will not do that you cannot defend yourself in even such a mundane way as swordplay," Glorfindel confided. He then unsheathed a long knife from his swordbelt and presented it to her. "I think you should take this on your journey, as a token from me. I hope that it will protect you, as I wish I could, in your travels. _No celin a melthin idh raid gîn_." She accepted it with thanks, knowing that she could not reject and also that a very large part of her actually wanted it, maybe because she thought she could actually wield its shorter length or because it was Glorfindel's. And they both sat there in the grass for some minutes more, his eyes were sorrowful and Aila did not know anything to say. After some time like this, Glorfindel set his mouth in a hard line and gave a small nod, to what Aila didn't know, and he reached behind where he sat and produced a single white flower. He very nearly hesitated but, determined, reached to Aila and placed the flower in her hand. Though Aila did not understand what it meant, she knew to be embarrassed, and her face flushed when he looked back at her. Nodding gallantly, he stood, gathered his sword, and with a final word of farewell left her still sitting on the grassy lawn.

She sat for a few minutes until she saw elven feet in front of her again and looking up saw that it was Legolas, and only Legolas, again. His eyes flew to the white flower she still held wonderingly in her hand and his good humor swiftly returned. Blushing again, she stood abruptly and gathered her sword from the ground. She re-sheathed the blade and also sheathed the knife in her belt and, still clutching the flower tightly in her hand, she stormed away from Legolas.

Aila found Arwen, thankfully, alone while reading a book in the House. She fell into a seat beside the elf and showed her the white flower and asked what it meant. Arwen closed her book thoughtfully and took some time and care in answering her. It seemed to Aila that she chose her words carefully.

"It is a gesture," she said finally, eyebrows raised thoughtfully on her serene face. "It is something quite special and particular to you, Aila, Sælrieth. It is a storied piece of elf-lore that those who carry favor with the Light Bearer present Her with a single white flower to demonstrate their affection. When you choose your match, Sælrieth, you choose from those who have presented you with this flower."

It took some time for Aila to process that little bit of information. "Is this the normal courting process of Elves?" she asked slowly.

"No," responded Arwen. "It is particular to the Light Bearer. Your coming has been writ in elf-lore since the awakening of the _Cuivienyarna_. We have had time to write the laws of your story." Aila did not speak for a long time. She wondered at such a thing as the flower in her hand and that it could hold so much meaning and cause such flutters of embarrassment and unease in her stomach. She had a fleeting thought of Glorfindel being so much _older_ than she was, but knew it was a silly notion. Elves did not reach maturity until they had lived a century at least, and any elf her own age would be only a child. But Glorfindel was one of the Firstborn, though he had died and chosen resurrection. It was ... insurmountable.

Arwen misinterpreted her silence and after a time said, "I am sure that you might have received several more, but many believe you strongly favor Glorfindel. You will, I think, receive many more in Lórien." For that, at least, Aila was grateful that her friendship with Glorfindel had spared her the reception of innumerable white amaryllis flowers. And her anxiety over a journey to Lórien increased one-hundredfold.

She lingered for half an hour with Arwen but was so deeply distracted that she could not continue any form of conversation. After that time, Aila stood and stalked away, anxiously watching the Elves she passed. Aila walked quickly to her bedchamber, as fast as she could go without running, in order to put away her sword and, for at least a little while, hide. When she arrived in her room, she unbelted the sword and laid it gently on her bedcovers. A soft tinkling of water drops on glass met her ears and she looked out the window to see that it was raining outside. It was a soft, gentle, enjoyable rain, just a patter of water and mist on the ground. She couldn't resist its cool call and went to exit the House and go outside.

The rain on her skin felt even better than it had sounded drumming on her windowsill. She turned her face upward to embrace its cool refreshment on her skin and she tried to let it wash away her worries and concerns. It felt like therapy, drops collecting and sliding down her face, gently settling on her skin and clothes, soaking into the fabric slowly and adding weight to its feel. Aila stood like that for a while, palms stretched up to receive the falling drops, and she closed her eyes and smiled. The rain reminded her that this world was, in even this very little way, like home.

"Don't your kind fall ill when exposed to the cold and damp?" the playful voice beside her was unmistakable and she cursed Legolas for interrupting her succor.

"Afraid that I'll die, Legolas?" she snapped, in a foul mood for having been snuck up on yet again, for the stress being put upon her, and for a myriad of things which had come upon her since her arrival in Middle Earth. "Afraid you won't be able to find your way to the Undying Lands without me?" His smile vanished and through his frown his eyes scanned over her irritably, obviously having not expected a smart retort.

"Did you not receive a sufficient number of flowers to your liking today, Aearvenel?" his sly smile was back, and Aila thought it looked particularly vicious, as were his words. However, the manner in which he finished his sentence gave her pause and she was forced to address it.

"Aearvenel?"

Legolas made a small bow. "You have many names. Among the Wood-Elves, you are known as Aearvenel."

"It was you!" she said accusingly, raising a finger to point at him. She thought the combined effect of her voice, her accusatory finger, and the falling rain made the entire spectacle dramatic and absurd. "It was your party that called me Intyalle."

Legolas' face was quite serious in that moment and it unsettled Aila, because it was not the Legolas she had become acquainted with over the previous two months that showed from his face now, because he looked rather serious and solemn. "It has been the charge of the Mirkwood Elves to study Aearvenel lore. I think there are many more things that I could tell you about yourself that would surprise your both to hear and to know that I knew them." It took a few seconds for Aila to consider what he had just said. And something inside her was burning. It grew in the pit of her stomach and engulfed her chest, and the thought of Legolas, whom she had come to regard as childish and silly, knowing more about her than she knew herself flamed her internally.

Before he could say anything more, though he opened his mouth to begin again, Aila turned on her heel and stormed away from him, and she was sure that her turning had flung wet hair into his face. She was blinded by such a confusing mix of emotions, and was so wholly involved in trying to dissect the emotions into their distinct identities, that she hadn't gone fifty yards before she walked headlong into an elven chest. If Fate was smiling on her or laughing at her, it was Glorfindel.

"Sælrieth!" he exclaimed, his hands reaching out to grab her shoulders and steady her. He quickly regained his composure. When he dropped his hands from her shoulders, she reached out to grasp them in her own. She was very well aware that Legolas was watching them.

"Thank you," she said hastily, the words tumbling inexpertly from her lips like water suddenly spilled from a glass. Catching herself, she started again slowly, "Thank you, for your gift earlier. I did not know what it meant, but I do now."

He smiled winningly and an expression mixed with relief and pleasure settled on his face. She felt him squeeze her fingers as he expressed his happiness. Glorfindel told her that he planned to follow her to Lórien as soon as Elrond allowed him to leave Rivendell again, and she asked that he bring Duke with him when he came. "_Ben iest gîn_," was his response. He released her right hand and lifted his own up to touch her hair, which was lank and dripping water on her shoulders and back. "Why were you out in the rain?" She laughed as if it were a joke but his face was as sincere and somber as ever. Aila realized that he was quite dry, as they stood under an eave of the House, and that there was a large swatch of dampness on his tunic where she had run into him. She reached up a hand to wring out her hair and thought she must have looked half-drowned. The elf-lord suggested they go inside so that she could warm up, since her stint in the rain must have chilled her.

As the pair turned to walk into the House, Aila turned her head to glance back and she saw that Legolas still stood watching her. There was an expression on his face that she couldn't decipher or describe, a mix of disbelief and sorrow perhaps, and the look of it haunted her for the next few days.

. . .

_Ai! Næg!_ = exclamations of pain

_No celin a melthin idh raid gîn_ = May your road be green and golden.

_Cuivienyarna_ = the first Elves that awoke

_Ben iest gîn_ = As you wish


	10. The Ring Goes South

A Note From the Author: Thanks again for all of your support! Quivering Quill – I'm glad that you think my story is promising. I've been trying to ensure that it has, at least, some substance. Also, hurra att du är svensk! Märkte du att Aila är också svensk? (Lundgren!)

. . .

Ch. 10 The Ring Goes South

Aila's last few days in Rivendell passed quickly and she spent the majority of her time packing and repacking a small rucksack. She spent a little time with Arwen and Glorfindel each, she played with Duke on the wide grassy lawns, and she, thankfully, did not receive any more little white flowers though she always saw Elves watching her distantly.

The day of the Fellowship's departure arrived and, with a heavy heart and a sick stomach, she met with eight of the company in the great hall, prepared to depart. Bilbo stood, shivering in the cold, beside the hobbits; Boromir absently held the Horn of Gondor slung on his belt; Aragorn bid adieu to Arwen; Legolas stood tall and erect, a quiver and bow strapped across his back; and Gimli openly wore a shirt of chain-mail and was equipped with a broad axe. Aila stood uncomfortably near them, her hand awkwardly resting on the hilt of her sword, and did not like the feeling of the sword hanging on her hip. They still awaited Gandalf, who presently arrived with Elrond.

"This is my last word," Elrond said in a low voice, which Aila thought was overly dramatic and did little but incite her tingling nerves. "The Ring-bearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom. On him alone is any charge laid: neither to cast away the Ring, nor deliver it to any servant of the Enemy nor indeed to let any handle it, save members of the Company and the Council, and only then in gravest need. The others go with him as free companions, to help him on his way ... no oath or bond is laid on you to go further than you will."

"Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens," replied Gimli, his voice was strong and brave and his chest was puffed out in a prideful manner. Aila couldn't second his attitude, and she felt herself shivering anxiously, rather from fear than the chill in the air.

"May the stars shine upon your faces!" Elrond raised his palms in blessing to the Company, and stepped forward to Aila to grasp her hand in both of his, in the way that Elves were fond of doing. He said to her, "_Ninion or 'ledhed lîn_." He bowed his head with a final, "_Nan lû e-govaded vîn_." Upon raising his head and stepping away, Aila saw the host of Elves who had gathered to see the Fellowship off on their journey begin to move.

Slowly, they each came to her and grasped her hand and bowed. When Glorfindel came, he grasped her hand and bowed, and raised one of his hands to cup her face so that his thumb rested lightly on her cheek. His eyes were deep and sorrowful when he gave his final, "_Navær_." She smiled weakly at him, and thought she couldn't have managed any expression less reassuring. At the elf-lord's feet sat Duke, and Aila fell to her knees to embrace the Doberman. Duke rested his head on her shoulder and gazed behind her at the Fellowship with mournful eyes. When she released him, the dog pressed his nose to her cheek briefly in farewell. As she made to stand up, she felt the familiar grasp of Legolas' hand on her arm just above her elbow, and when she was upright he pulled her gently away from the crowd of Elves and, together with the rest of the Company, they exited the House.

. . .

The company traveled south along little-traveled roads, which as often brought them to the edge of a precipice or down into treacherous swamps as in the direction they sought. And day and night an easterly wind blew strong, seeking out bare skin with chilling fingers and driving cold needles through the fabric of their clothing. Though Aila was glad to be in a tunic and leggings, she thought remorsefully that maybe the many-layered skirt of a dress would keep her legs warmer. She kept her fur-lined cloak tightly wrapped around her at all times.

They walked in a single-file line through barren and rough country. Aragorn and Gandalf led the group, followed by Frodo and Sam, then Boromir, Gimli, Merry and Pippin, and herself, and at the rear, keen-eyed Legolas. Aila couldn't quell the feeling of terror that stayed with her, through long marches and sleepless nights, and its sharp teeth gnawed at her. Their trek was also physically challenging for her, for even though she had tried to keep physically fit, she had led an academic's life and had spent more of her time reading and sitting in front of a computer than competing in marathons. She felt now that she hiked a marathon each day. Though Aila tried to hide the strain she was feeling, it came unbidden from her in loud huffs and puffs as she struggled to catch her breath, and it was displayed in the reddening of her face, both from exertion and cold, and she felt embarrassed that she could not regulate these physiological symptoms of her poorly prepared body.

Legolas' presence behind her also became a source of frustration and annoyance. She stumbled often, especially nearing the end of a march when her leaden legs refused to move properly, or when her mind was engaged in considering the predicament she found herself in, or even when she was distracted by the terror that wracked her body and paid too little attention to the ground before her feet. At each stumble and misstep, Legolas' hand would sweep forward to grasp her shoulders or her arm to steady her. She did not appreciate his constant assistance as it made her feel weak and alien to herself. She was not accustomed to being the weakest member of any party and loathed the feeling of incompetence she felt through the journey. Aila had always been strong-willed and capable, but then, she thought, she had lived in a much more forgiving and comfortable world. And so she blew out her cheeks, wiped cold sweat from her forehead, and tried to keep up with the trekking party with her head held as high as she could.

After their first fortnight abroad came to a close, Aila realized that the company had begun to consider that she was largely Legolas' responsibility and left her increasingly to his care and attention. This frustrated her as well since Legolas had stopped talking to her, except on the rarest occasion, and was increasingly distant. Though she was initially glad that he had ceased making jokes at her expense, she was feeling more and more lonely and friendless in the cold wind of their travels.

Gandalf talked to her sometimes at mealtimes, and he took pleasure in describing the region to her and found no small wonder in her acknowledgements that she was familiar with the country she had never entered before. They were now entering Hollin, called Eregion before by the Elves that had dwelt there, and she knew the tidings that this land brought. The wizard asked her sometimes to share her knowledge and she obliged sometimes, though sparingly. In this instance, she only responded that she knew they were following the appropriate path. She did not make any effort to tell him anything more, and to the contrary, rather spent a lot of mental energy forming her sentences so as not to give anything away to him that might change the course of their travels. Aragorn, though he did not pay her much mind, at least that she could see, did manage to give a curt smile and a nod on occasion. The hobbits also talked to her sometimes, and she thought they were increasingly generous with their society. Pippin sometimes was worse for the wear because the trek and the cold and the lack of a fire made him miserable. But still, he sought muted conversation with her when he could and she was glad for it.

Still, she felt Legolas' silent and keen eyes watching her always.

She laid curled on the ground, trying to sleep though it was daylight out. They had feared they were being watched in the country of Hollin and as such had begun traveling at night and hiding during the day. Sleep did not come to her and her mind worked vigorously, trying to untwist the knot in her stomach and thinking idly and longingly about her life on the other side of the mirror. What she wouldn't give for a warm fire and a thick book! She would sip her tea and read about abnormal psychology, get a good night's sleep, and commute to the lab in the morning. And the worst part of her day might be a paper-cut. She heard delicate rustling behind her and knew that Legolas was returning from his watch. He had taken to setting up his bedroll next to or near hers, and his constant nearness and constant silence drove Aila mad. She felt alone and afraid and weak. None of these were emotions she was accustomed to having.

The next morning, as Pippin complained about having no fire again and trudging through the night, Aila packed up her things and took her usual place in the procession of company members. She did not bother to speak and kept her eyes firmly on the ground, which gave her a sallow and depressing expression.

After some hours of marching, Aila noticed that in front of her Pippin was plodding along dolefully, muttering to himself and kicking clods of dirt where he could. Though chided by Merry, he could not seem to force himself to control his mood. Aila, pained by what she saw and forgetting her own sad condition for a moment, reached out a hand to put on Pippin's shoulder. He looked up at her with a sad and irritable expression because he knew she understood how miserable he was. Her heart turned over in her chest, pumping unhappily as she witnessed his pain. Something in her chest leapt and she felt a small energy burst forth from her. After a moment's pause, Pippin looked up at her with a much relieved expression.

"I had heard tell of your powers," he said quietly, touching her hand on his shoulder in thanks. "And I could not hardly believe it. But I thank you now; my heart and mind are much lightened." She smiled in return, unsure how her power had affected him or, indeed, how it had come to be engaged. Briefly she wondered if she could cause such an effect in her own mind, but knew that she could not.

Behind her, Legolas walked lightly and watched the exchange. Over the previous fortnight, his eyes were as often engaged in watching her as they were in scanning the periphery and land surrounding their small company. He watched as Aila withdrew her hand and pulled her cloak tightly around her once more. Her dark brown hair was loose over her shoulders, kept forward about her ears to provide extra warmth, and Legolas could just see the shape of her figure in the tightly wrapped cloak. He had, in fact, not spoken to her since their conversation in the rain and he had spent much of his silence in observing her.

She had, he thought, not a slim figure but not a displeasing one. Her shape was feminine, a small waist that gave way to large hips, but atop rather thick, sturdy legs. Her hair was thick and dark and beautiful, though it barely came past her shoulder blades. In her face there was something of exaggerated beauty – her lips were full and pink, her nose was small, and her eyes large and round, sometimes an olive green and sometimes a light brown. And though when her expression was blank, or thoughtful, these features culminated in an extraordinarily beautiful face, there was at times something ugly in her large features. Sometimes when she talked, one could see her teeth which, though they may have been normal for an individual with thinner lips, seemed too small and rounded for her. And though her lips were large, her mouth seemed small. She also had round cheeks that lifted when she smiled and caused her eyes to shrink to small slits. Though in some consideration, he had to amend that when she smiled wide, when her lips stretched open and her plump cheeks merrily rose to cover her eyes, it was still a beautiful expression of joy.

The sun began to rise over the mountains to the east and so their march came to a close as the night did. They set up camp and Legolas took first watch. Aila lay on the ground near to the hobbits and tried to sleep, or at least put herself in a position conducive to sleep, but again it did not readily come. Rather than lying on the hard ground, she decided to give up all pretenses and sat up, resting her back against a holly-tree and watched as the hobbits slept soundly.

Aragorn rose to relieve Legolas of the watch, and when he saw her sitting up he frowned at her. The Men, and Legolas and Gimli, never asked her to stand watch. Though she was awake through most of the day, she didn't trust herself to stay awake when it mattered. She also did not have their sharp training which told their eyes where to look and what to watch for.

The Man went to seek out the Elf, who had been walking a silent perimeter on his guard. After a few moments of silence, broken only by Merry's light snoring, Legolas returned and only the fact that Aila had been watching for him made her see him as he entered the campsite silently. She saw his eyes sweep across the sleeping figures on the ground as he looked for hers and, upon not finding her sleeping, his alarmed eyes sought her out and saw her sitting against the tree trunk. She saw that he was relieved to see her and he walked quickly to the tree where she sat. He sank down to sit beside her.

"You should get some rest. It is not well that you lay sleepless every day we make camp." At first, she was only surprised – she hadn't realized that he knew she wasn't sleeping and an unfounded guilt flooded into her that she was failing, even, in her duty to sleep. But the sudden sound of his voice, when he hadn't spoken to her for so long, gave her anger as quickly as it gave her pause and shock.

She took a deep breath to settle her anger, failed, and instead snapped, "Do you think I haven't been trying?" He didn't say anything in response, so she continued, "What? Have you finished talking to me again for the next three weeks? Well," she said testily, turning her face away from him, "I'm glad that you at least can exist with so little endeavor at being social."

"You made it quite clear in Rivendell that you did not care for my society," he responded angrily, her strong emotions incited similar in him. "You so obviously preferred Glorfindel, in every way," he finished pointedly.

"I did!" she responded, and realized her voice was growing louder. She reduced it back to a harsh whisper. "He had at least some respect for me and, on top of that, even liked to talk to me! Who should wonder that I liked the elf who didn't make fun of me and who enjoyed my company?"

Legolas suddenly turned, and his swift motion made her look back to him, and his blue eyes looked deeply into hers for a few moments. "Surely you cannot mean to encourage him or his affection?" he asked incredulously, and she could see in his face that he regretted his words immediately. He made an attempt to redeem his intention: "I have watched you and I think I know some of your character. You laugh and are joyful, but he is only solemn and serious. Shouldn't you need a match that is more like your disposition? Shouldn't you need a mate that is light of heart and quick to joy?"

"Someone like you?" Aila laughed, and was sorry that she did. But still, she could not quell her anger, and out of it bubbled her loneliness and frustration and newfound weakness. "What I _need_, Legolas, is companionship! I feel so alone, even surrounded by the other members of this Fellowship. I am terrified, and I fear – I know – it will get much worse before we reach Lothlórien. And here I am: in a world that I do not belong in, on a quest I shouldn't be a part of, and setting off for a region unknown through dangerous lands and always under the watchful eyes of the Enemy!"

She heard that Merry had stopped snoring and that the two younger hobbits were watching her and Legolas with cautious eyes. Gimli still snored soundly, but she saw also that Boromir watched them. Her anger suddenly deflated at the audience and she stood up, brushing dirt needlessly from her pants. She turned her back on Legolas and went to lay down, where she had initially laid her things. After expressing so much anger, she did indeed feel exhausted and lie happily on the ground, with her pack under her head as a pillow. After a few minutes, she heard Legolas lie down near her, but she fell asleep before she could think to be bothered by his continued closeness.

. . .

_Nínion or 'ledhed lîn_ = I cry upon your leaving

_Nan lû e-govaded vîn_ = Until we next meet

_Navær_ = Farewell


	11. Caradhras

Ch. 11 Caradhras

Aila woke to aching pain, her muscles were sore from the long nightly marches and the right side of her was stiff from lying on the hard, cold ground. She saw Merry sleeping not far from her, his eyes still closed tight and his mouth open in a light snore. As she watched him sleep soundly, she wiggled her toes and stretched her legs, trying to rid some of the stiffness from her body. Flipping onto her back, she pointed her toes and elongated her body, working her cold muscles, and craned her neck to try to work out the painful kink in it.

As she turned onto her left side, she froze momentarily as she saw Legolas sleeping close to her on her other side. His eyes were closed and his chest rose with each soft, silent breath. He was sleeping on his side and facing her, with one long hand tucked under his head, fingers intertwined in long blonde hair. His other hand was tightly clasping a long knife, which lay on the ground between them. As silently as she could, Aila settled on her left side and continued stretching her body, holding in groans of discomfort and pain as she stretched tight muscles. When she finished her stretching, she watched Legolas carefully to ensure he was still sleeping. His breath came slow and steady, and his eyelids stayed closed.

She put a hand up to cushion her head as she looked at him, twisting her fingers into her hair and unconsciously mimicking his body position. For a few minutes, she lie looking at him sharply, thinking. He infuriated her, of that much she was sure. In Rivendell he had always been quick to laugh at her and make jokes at her expense, she thought he was childish and petty and even now the thought of his behavior made anger bubble up from the pit of her stomach. But she prided herself in being rational, and she was a cognitive psychologist – and as such she knew that strong emotions could prevent rational thought, so she pushed down the feeling of irritation that swelled in her and tried to think logically about her situation.

After she pushed down her bubbling anger and cleared her mind, she tried to look at Legolas objectively. As he slept, she thought he was uncommonly beautiful even for Elves. He had thick but well-shaped eyebrows over closed eyes, a broad forehead and high, thin cheekbones. A strong jaw outlined thin lips, though his bottom lip was a bit fuller than the top, and the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned in an eternally happy and playful expression. Aila could see a delicately pointed ear sticking out from his soft blonde hair. He was beautiful, that was certain, but she tried to think about his actions and his personality. She couldn't resist the possibility that his playfulness and joking had been taken poorly by her, a woman who had taken offense where none had been meant because she was herself uncomfortable and uncertain about her life and place in a foreign world. It was entirely possible, and probably likely, that her own pride and distaste had led him to keep his thoughts to himself on their journey since leaving Rivendell. Logically, she knew that if he had really wanted to belittle her and cause her anguish, he could have much better served his purpose by continuing to badger her after the Company had departed and Aila could no longer seek the social protection of Arwen and Glorfindel.

She thought long and hard about this and decided that, though Legolas was far from faultless and didn't possess a perfect character, that her own prejudices had been involved in keeping him away. Still, it incensed her that, even after their argument the previous morning, he still slept barely three feet from her. It also made her uncomfortable and angry that he still insisted on calling her Aearvenel, which only served to remind her that he saw her only as Light Bearer. She knew, however, that this was both her frustration and her salvation: because she was this bit of elven-lore, she knew that Legolas was her best shot at companionship, especially since he had already proven he would stand and protect her even as he thought she disliked him. As cheap as such a friendship felt to her, Aila thought it was a big improvement on her current friendless situation.

Dissatisfied but glad she had been able to recognize her own poor behavior, Aila closed her eyes and tried to get back to sleep, as it appeared far from nightfall. Eventually, she did fall asleep, still on her side and facing Legolas. When she woke a few hours later, Legolas was already gone.

That night during their regular march Aila was saved from the awkwardness of having to walk in front of Legolas by Gandalf, who beckoned her to the front of the line with himself and Aragorn. Gimli obligingly fell back to walk with Legolas behind the second group of hobbits. The Dwarf had not witnessed the spat between Aila and Legolas the day before and as such did not share the knowing and uncomfortable looks given her by Merry and Boromir. Pippin looked at her from cheerless eyes.

Her feet were careful to pick out a path in the darkness while she listened to Gandalf and Aragorn heatedly discuss their appropriate path. Their decision, she knew, lay between the icy impasse of Caradhras and the dark depths of Moria. "I fear," said Gandalf finally, with a pointed look at Aila which drew her to pay more careful attention, "that the Redhorn Gate may be watched; and also I have doubts of the weather that is coming up behind." Aila watched him with guarded eyes and realized she was surprised to hear Gandalf rallying for the way that led through Moria. But he couldn't understand, and she couldn't tell him, why that way was so perilous – and also why that way, and its consequence, was necessary.

Aragorn spoke then of not trusting the way through the Gap of Rohan, as that path took them too close to the gates of Isengard and that tower's fell master. "Indeed, Saruman is no longer to be trusted in the least. He will, I think, have an engaged interest in the death of Aila as well, if not equal to his desire for the Ring. We should not bring her that far south in any case, for she is meant for Lothlórien." Aila couldn't understand why Saruman could have any interest at all in her, but she knew also that they would not pass south through the Gap of Rohan.

After Aragorn petitioned a few more times for taking instead the Redhorn pass, Gandalf again looked pointedly to Aila and she knew that he meant for her to weigh in with her extraordinary knowledge. "I cannot," she began slowly, "have any great effect on your minds regarding this. You both know this land and its perils much better than I. But I fear we shall have to try our will against the bleakness of Caradhras."

Her words, though not immediately, settled the dispute and Aila was left uncomfortably silent and she wondered at her continued involvement in the decisions of the Company. She could only hope that her effect was minimal.

In the next few days, or rather nights, the Company finally gained the barren foot of the grey mountain. As their last morning this side of the mountain dawned, Aila took pause and turned her face upward to stare at the rocky white peak of Caradhras. A tremor shook her body along her spine and forced the air from her lungs in a harsh exhaled breath, and she knew the rest of the travelers saw the look of dread that held her face for a moment's time.

They only paused now to rest a while and eat, Gandalf intended that they head into the mountain as soon as possible. His face was always turned worriedly behind them, his eyes lifted to regard the heavy clouds all around them or to lift a nose to the air and inhale deeply as though he detected a foul smell.

Between Legolas and Aila there had been a few conversations in the last days since their argument. He had cautiously addressed her and she had tried very hard to receive his conversation warmly and gladly. Encouraged by her response, Legolas had spoken to her increasingly over the last few days, though it was not possible to carry on many conversations or anything but short exchanges. The Elf now sat silently behind her as they ate a cold meal and rested for a few hours before trying their luck on Caradhras.

As they prepared to begin again and start their ascent into the mountain, Boromir said, "I will add a word of advice, if I may ... We shall meet bitter cold, if no worse, before we come down on the other side. It will not help us to keep so secret that we are frozen to death. When we leave here, where there are still a few trees and bushes, each of us should carry a faggot of wood, as large as he can bear."

"Very well," conceded Gandalf, though he did not take his eyes from the sky behind them. "But we must not use the wood – not unless it is a choice between fire and death."

The company set out swiftly at first but their way soon became winding and difficult to maneuver. Each carried his length of wood however he found most comfortable. Gimli had thrust his over his shoulder, keeping it at an angle to the ground. The hobbits were managing well, though Sam, she thought, had taken a bit too large for him, though he didn't show it. Aragorn carried his horizontally against his chest, Legolas carried his as if it were light as a feather and shifted it to different positions as he walked lightly and more carelessly than any other. Boromir stoutly carried two logs. Aila, however, had difficulty carrying her burden. In a moment of pride, as she watched the others select large faggots of wood, she had selected one which had felt to be a good weight for her, but its weight increased as her arms tired. She shifted its weight endlessly but no position lessened her struggle. Still, she marched doggedly on, refusing aid when others offered it and plucking up her determination to continue on.

They had gained a little altitude up into the mountain when the snow began to fall, first as small and infrequent flakes but increasing in swiftness and number as the Company climbed. Aila, knowing what lay for the travelers ahead, shivered a little and her dread lessened somewhat the weight she carried in her arms. Legolas blinked snowflakes from his eyelashes and watched her as she trudged forward, her shoulders and the top of her head turning white under a thin blanket of show. After an hour or two of walking through the snow, the ferocity of the storm increased so that they could barely see the ground they walked upon and could only just make out each other's figures on the path. After each bumped into the walker in front of him several times, Gandalf called that they rest for a while and wait out the storm.

"His arm has grown long," she heard Gandalf say to Gimli, and she watched the wizard tuck his chilled hands into overly large sleeves. They halted for a little under an hour, and when the wind died a bit and the snow slackened, they made ready to begin again.

"The storm will only return with greater fury," she warned, but knew that they must go on.

"Let it," replied Aragorn, and his eyes were aflame with determination and strong will. "It is a chance we must take. We must pass here, or we may not pass at all." With a sidelong glance at Gandalf, who regarded the Ranger with narrowed eyes, Aragorn led the Company forward again.

They had not traveled much farther when the blizzard returned with fresh might and soon even stout Boromir found it difficult to continue. The hobbits were bent double against the wind, snow piled in the cuffs of their clothes and their noses frozen and red. Gimli grumbled darkly, Aragorn continued desperately, and even Legolas was forced, at least, to slit his eyes against the onslaught of snow. Aila's feet were numb through her boots, her exposed skin stung with each pelting snowflake, driven swiftly by the wild wind, and the cold air bit her lungs as she struggled to breath. Her teeth chattered with cold and her hairs were raised in goose bumps, even at the base of her neck. She clutched the wood close to her chest, dragging her feet, snowflakes clinging to her eyelashes and dampening her hair. Still she struggled doggedly on, and the sight of Legolas, walking lightly atop the snow and not shivering in the least, gave her rebellious determination to continue even though she pushed her body to its limit. The muscles in her legs were frozen and refused to work properly, and so she stumbled forward, unable to move her frozen body swiftly enough, and fell forward against her left shoulder onto the hard ground. Wet snow flew about her as she impacted the ground, rising in a dramatic flurry before settling again on top of her. She cried out in a surprised and desperate gasp, tears of pain springing to her eyes and freezing on her cheeks.

Aragorn, who was closest to her, bent to help her up, though Legolas was not far behind him. Man and Elf dragged her up onto her feet again, and Legolas took her faggot of wood from her and held it beside his. The Ranger looked at her through wide, apologetic eyes. He put a hand to her frozen face and gazed at her like he hadn't seen her before but recognized something familiar. Putting one of his arms around her shoulders, he pulled her against his side, in a feeble attempt to share some of his body heat with her and to support her steps, and they walked forward again.

A loud rumbling sounded, through the howls of the wild wind, a sound which sounded like rock grinding against rock. "Quickly!" she cried, as loud as her frozen lips would move. She struggled to form words, as her frozen tongue felt unwieldy and thick. "Retreat beneath this ledge, more than snow will be falling soon!" Luckily, all nine heard and understood her and raced underneath the nearest ledge. Aragorn pulled Aila with him, and she struggled to move as quickly as her heart warned her that she should. Legolas was behind her and wouldn't go underneath the ledge until she was safe beneath it. Just as he managed cover, a first boulder came hurtling past them, down the path they had just left.

"Let those call it the wind who will; but there are fell voices in the air; and these stones are aimed at us," cried Boromir, huddling against the rock wall. A gloved hand rested on the Horn of Gondor.

"I do call it the wind," replied Aragorn, but his voice was strained and forced. He sat Aila down against the wall at the back of the small cave the ledge afforded. "But that does not make what you say untrue."

They stayed under the ledge, for it was the only shelter to be had behind or in front of them. The snow continued to mount, furiously pounding into the rock-face to such heights that if the hobbits had been alone they would have been utterly lost and buried beneath the snow drifts that built around them. At length, Gandalf finally acquiesced to fire but it was beyond the skill of both Men and Legolas to light one as their wood had become so impregnated with dampness that any attempt at fire-building was fruitless. Watching, Gandalf sighed and muttered some incantation. A great blue and green flame sprang forth from the wood, sputtered, and grew into a tolerable fire. Aila watched as everyone huddled around the fire, though its sparse warmth seemed to do little to warm their frozen bodies. The hobbits were huddled together, shamelessly sharing what warmth each had left. Even the Men and Gimli, she thought, sat more closely together than they needed, their sides pressed against one another as they huddled close around the fire. She thought momentarily of the effect she had been able to have in Pippin and closed her eyes.

Again, she found herself standing in a long glass hallway, Sea on the left and Sky on the right beyond the walls. However, a thick wooden door stood about twenty feet from her on the right, and she knew she had to go through it. She walked quickly to it and heaved against its weight, pulling it, creaking, open. As she walked through, her eyes were greeted with a great library, its long walls lined with shelves and shelves of books: there were books laying thick on tables throughout the room, books laying open with their spines up on the arms of chairs, books stacked on the floor, and books open to unknown pages. And on the opposite side of the rectangular room from where she stood, in a great stone hearth and mantel ten-feet wide, a huge fire crackled merrily. She rushed to it and put her frozen fingers against its heat, barely able to hold herself back from putting her chilled fingers into the flame itself. After a few minutes, she heard shuffling behind her, and she spun around. The figures that she saw shocked her: Aila looked upon nine more women, each an exact replica of herself. They each held a long wooden torch in their hands, unlit, and they walked in a line to the fire, each lowering her torch to light it in the flame of the hot fire that still danced in the hearth as Aila watched. Then, each of these ghosts paused and looked at Aila questioningly, waiting her command. She thought for a moment, understood, and nodded to each in turn. The first, with its torch blazing more warmly than it should be able to, she sent to Frodo, and the next to Merry, then Pippin, then Sam, and each one she sent out to the members of the Company.

When she came consciously again to herself sitting under the ledge, Gandalf was kneeling before her. He smiled warmly. "Thank you, your efforts are appreciated and will indeed do much good for all of us here that are trapped beneath this wintry ledge. But this," and he presented her with a small, uncorked leather flask, "will warm the body as well as warm the Mind." As she took a small, sparing sip of the miruvor, she knew that a small figure of herself stood in each of their minds with the blazing warmth of a torch. Frodo looked to her appreciatively and she managed a stiff smile in return. The miruvor warmed her significantly, but still she shivered against the blustering wind that still found purchase through her clothes and cloak.

Legolas, who sat close beside her, could not stand to watch her shiver and convulse in the cold air that surrounded them. He reached a tentative arm to envelop her shoulders and, emboldened by his determination, pulled her fully against his chest and tucked her tightly in his arms. Initially, she tried to push away, but her effort was weak and stopped entirely when her cold cheek came to rest against his warm chest, and she could not resist the warmth that he offered. After a time, when her shivering started to slow, he spoke to her softly. "I will not say you are mistaken to accuse me of unsocial behavior. Indeed, I have not acted toward you as I think I should have. Please accept my sincerest apologies and know, as you must know, that you are precious to me as a companion." She did not say anything to him, too concerned still with the warmth of his arms around her. "Aila," he said, "_ci na vellon_."

It was some time before she realized he had called her, finally, by her name. That thought warmed her happily. She pressed into him and wrapped her arms around him to return his hugging embrace, and as she began to fall asleep, as she lost consciousness, she transported again and she found herself standing on a narrow path in a green forest, surrounded by giant trees and whistling birds and there was spongy ground beneath her feet. It was warm and comforting here, and sunlight shone through gaps in the trees. She found a large patch of warming sunlight and laid her back against a tree trunk, relishing in the feeling of the light on her skin, and fell asleep in the warm grove of the trees.

. . .

_Ci na vellon_ = You are with a friend


	12. Dances with Wolves

A Note From the Author: Your reviews make me so happy! Thanks for the support, it is definitely a wonderful feeling to know that other people are enjoying this little project as much as I am enjoying it. Unfortunately, I have to let you all know that this will be the last chapter for about a week, which means I must break my quick-updating pattern. Since it is the new year soon, and I have some extensive plans with friends, I won't be online or writing as much as I have been in the last month. Don't despair! I'll return soon after the new year. Happy New Year to you all!

. . .

Ch. 12 Dances with Wolves

Aila's cheek rested against rough fabric and she was warm and comfortable. Her fingers were twisted in the fur lining of a cloak, grasping tightly so as not to lose their hold on the warm fur. A pair of arms held her securely in place in her comfortable seat and for a long time she did not want to move. Legolas' chin rested on the crown of her head and she felt his chest rise and fall smoothly with each slow breath. However, she was quickly betrayed by the stirrings of the rest of the Company, and Legolas loosened his tight embrace and pulled her slightly away from him to look at her face.

"Awake?" he asked, his eyebrows slightly raised, and she could see that there was something of an overly pleased expression on his face. Smug, actually.

"Awake," she confirmed, yawning, and settled away from him to sit on her own. Cold air washed against the skin which had only moments ago been warm. "The faster we retreat from this dread mountain, the better, I say, Aragorn." The Company gathered themselves together and began to survey the cold morning and their surroundings, which still lay covered in a thick blanket of snow. The snow drifts were so high that there was no hope that the hobbits could pass through unaided. It was apparent to them all, however, that they must retreat from the mountain.

"If Gandalf would go before us with a bright flame, he might melt a path for you," said Legolas, and his tone was light and playful, a smile upon his lips. He alone of the company remained largely unaffected by the storm and some source of pride lightened his heart and mood. His blue eyes twinkled, but the rest all looked back at him with sour expressions.

"If Elves could fly over mountain, they might fetch the Sun to save us," replied Gandalf bitterly, slamming his staff into the nearest snowdrift. It disappeared more than five feet into the snow. After some time and discussion, Boromir suggested that he force a path, with Aragorn, and the two Men swiftly departed the Company to make their way through the snow: Aragorn, tall and strong, and Boromir, shorter but thick and powerful.

"The strongest must seek a way, say you?" said Legolas, still with that playful expression on his face. He cast a look to Aila, his eyebrows raised and his lips parted in a broad, arrogant smile. She tried not to scowl at his expression, and pulled her cloak about her again against the cold. "But I say: let a ploughman plough, but choose an otter for swimming, and for running light over grass and leaf, or over snow – an Elf." At that, he sprang atop the snow and began to run lightly away, following after the Men, and Aila saw that he wore only light shoes. She thought darkly about how unaffected he had been by the storm, which made her feel even more inadequate at her own poor display at toughing through the cold.

After an hour, the two strong Men returned, having forced a manageable path through the snow. They each picked up a hobbit, Merry and Pippin respectively, and with the hobbits on their backs, the Men turned again to force their way through the snow. It was not a long path, as the snow was largely piled up in the few hundred yards behind them, and then the snow swiftly declined in volume until it was hardly a light powder on the path. The Men returned a second time, Boromir put Sam on his back and Aragorn did the same with Frodo, and Gimli was perched atop the packs on Bill the pony's back. But Aila insisted on forcing her own way through in their wake, though the snow still came well above her knees. She didn't think she could live with the embarrassment of being carried piggy-back, or allowing anyone to help her when she was a full-bodied and able person. It was, of course, a mighty struggle and she set her face in hard determination, but she was not slight-bodied and managed to force her way through tolerably. Legolas hovered above her, watching carefully from atop the snow pack and his constant presence drove her to greater strength, as he walked lightly on top of the snow she struggled through.

The entire Company made it down the mountain in much less time than it had taken them to climb up it. When they stopped for a meal and to rest, they were farther south than their starting point up the mountain had been. They all sat together in a rough circle, as if there was an unspoken understanding that they each needed to participate in an important discussion – which they did. Gandalf began shortly, laying out their various options for continuing in their journey. They could not return to Rivendell and as such fail in their quest – this was not an option acceptable to any of them, but Aila saw that Sam's face was momentarily mournful. More quickly than Aila had expected, their conversation turned to Moria.

"The road may lead to Moria, but how can we hope that it will lead through Moria?" asked Aragorn darkly when Gandalf had suggested that path.

"It is a name of ill omen," agreed Boromir, shaking his head as he looked at the barren ground in the center of their circle. Though he sat, his hand still found comforting purchase on the Horn. "Nor do I see the need to go there." And he presently suggested they travel, instead, to the south and pass through the Gap of Rohan, but even before he had finished his speech, Gandalf's head was shaking.

"Did you not hear what I told you of Saruman? The Ring must not come near to Isengard, if that can by any means be prevented. The Gap of Rohan is closed to us while we go with the Bearers."

Legolas' sharp ears identified the plural. "Saruman the White can have no business at all with Aila. What concern is she of his?"

"I think that we would be foolish to give him opportunity to know anything about her. I am quite certain that, if knowledgeable of her powers and prophecy, he could not want her to live to oppose him or to provide the Elves, whom he would enslave, safe haven."

Aila put a despairing hand to her cheek and cast down her eyes to look at her feet, and after a moment looked back up at Gandalf. The wizard was looking earnestly at her. "So it seems I become a further hindrance upon this Fellowship." She was surprised, then, when Gandalf laughed, though his eyes were still grim.

"You are wrong to think that you have served no purpose, and that you will not continue to serve an even more important one." He would not say another word on the subject, but instead asked of Moria: "The question is: who will follow me, if I lead you there?"

"I will," said Gimli eagerly, and in his eyes shone an intense and glittering fire. "I will go and look on the halls of Durin, whatever may wait there – if you can find the Doors that are Shut."

After a silence, Aragorn said heavily: "I will. You followed my lead almost to disaster in the snow, and have said no word of blame. I will follow your lead now."

"I will _not_ go," immediately replied Boromir, and Aila thought the way he crossed his arms over his chest seemed quite haughty. "Not unless the vote of the whole company is against me. What do Legolas and the little folk say? And what does the lady say? Does her power of prophecy direct our movements now, and why shouldn't it, if she had such knowledge?" Aila's thoughts froze, half-formed, and she struggled to force them to flow again. She did not want to have such a meaningful impact on the Company and its movements, and she was struggling to think what she should do or say. Could she direct them to Moria? They must, after all, make the Mines over the next day or so, if she could remember properly. But her mind wasn't functioning and she couldn't remember. She thought hours had passed, but after a few moments pause, Legolas responded in her stead,

"I do not wish to go to Moria." His blue eyes looked at her pleadingly, as though he hoped she would magically produce another path. She looked mournfully back at him. This Elf, who had protected her, she would have to lead down into Moria.

Frodo, who had remained silent for a long time, finally spoke. "I do not wish to go, but neither do I wish to refuse the advice of Gandalf. I fear that Aila knows our path, but cannot say, and thus that she means we must go down into Moria. But I beg that there should be no vote until we have slept on it. Gandalf will get votes easier in the light of the morning than in this cold gloom. How the wind howls!"

"How the wind howls?" cried Aragorn, leaping to his feet, and his hand went immediately to his sword hilt though he did not draw it out. "That is no wind!"

"The hunt is up!" responded Gandalf, also standing quickly, gripping his staff tightly in both hands. The rest of the party got to their feet as quickly as they could, and Aila rose to her feet in an ungainly fashion and stood awkwardly, unsure what to do. "Even if we live to see the dawn, who now will wish to journey south by night with the wild wolves on his trail?"

The Company retreated quickly to a nearby hill, huddling together at its crest, which was circled with large boulders. Legolas had a hand on Aila's arm and kept her always between himself and Aragorn. In the center of the crested hill, they built a fire, knowing that there was no hope that silence and darkness would hide them from the hunting packs, and that fire, at least, might be used against the hunting wolves. They sat anxiously around the fire, Aila still between Legolas and Aragorn, and the Elf's hand stayed firmly on her arm. After only half an hour of waiting, a great wolf appeared, standing at a space between two rocks, his terrifying figure casting long shadows against the moon and firelight. A shuddering howl escaped his throat, as a captain would call his company to the attack, and the sound of it shook Aila, forced her eyes wide in fear and stopped the beating of her heart momentarily.

Equally terrifying, a shout rose from within their camp: "Listen, Hound of Sauron," and it was Gandalf, lifting his staff aloft, diagonal and held as a shield before him. His voice was loud and demanding, echoing so that he sounded as if he occupied the entire space of the night. "Gandalf is here! Fly, if you value your foul skin! I will shrivel you from tail to snout, if you come within this ring." His voice was loud and frightful. Legolas pulled Aila to stand and turned her so that her back was to the fire. She had been looking into the fire before, and the light still danced before her eyes, making it impossible to see anything around her in the darkness. Her blindness panicked her and cold sweat formed on her brow.

She heard the wolf snarl in response, taking no heed to the wizard's loud words, and he lowered his head, hackles rising over sharp yellow teeth and his ears lay flat against his head. He took a slow and purposeful step forward, the claws of his foot just breaking the circle that the rocks formed. A sharp twang came from behind her, and Aila realized immediately that Legolas' hand was no longer on her arm. The wolf fell, shuddering, with a thump to the ground, and Legolas' elven arrow grew unnaturally out of his throat. Aragorn and Boromir strode forward into the darkness, taking a quick sweep of the circle of stones, swords at the ready, but the hill was deserted. The wolves had fled the carcass of their captain.

As he returned, Aragorn re-sheathed his sword and said to them, "It is best that we try to get some rest while we can. In the morning we will flee to the Doors of Moria." The Ranger took first watch, along with Gandalf, and the two strode a tight perimeter around the rest of the Company and the fire at the center. Aila laid down as close to the fire as she could, despite its incredible warmth. Legolas sat down beside her, putting his back against the fire and Aila behind him, and she knew that he would not sleep while he watched for the wolves. She forced herself to close her eyes and, with wild thoughts of wolf-mouths slathered in spit, she fell into a fitful sleep. As she slipped into unconsciousness, she felt Legolas' hand again upon her upper arm, but instead of tight and commanding, it was soft and comforting. She wondered if she was able to smile at him before she fell asleep.

. . .

Aila jolted awake as terrifying howls filled the air from all sides of the hill. Her heart beat swiftly and leapt into her throat and her face was sweating from sitting so close to the fire, though her palms were sticky and cold. Legolas no longer sat in front of her and she could not see where he had gone. She struggled to her feet, her movements were muddy and listless, and she tried to force the panic out of her mind so that she could think clearly. To her left, she saw the hobbits waking with fear and she immediately rushed to them to help them up, all other half-formed ideas forgotten for the moment. As soon as the hobbits stood, they each drew their short swords, or long knives as it were, and put their backs to the fire anxiously.

"Fling fuel on the fire!" Gandalf cried to them, and as they scrambled to find firewood, he added, "Draw your blades!" As Aila reached for her sword, however, she saw that Gandalf was instantly at her side and he stayed her hand. "Do not use Núadin until you must, Aila. I fear spreading knowledge of its presence, and yours, in this company." She nodded, and he strode away, but her hand still rested on the hilt of the sword. She felt a soft vibration, as though the sword were inaudibly humming, trilling and calling to her. A thought deep in her mind told her to use it, that she was meant to wield the sword. But she could not ignore the words of Gandalf and knew that his fears made sense. She instead drew the long knife that Glorfindel had given her. The sight of it in her hand terrified her more than the howls that still filled the air. It was long but still only the length of her forearm and hand, from the tips of her fingers to her elbow, and the thought of using it to fight off large wolves was nearly incapacitating her with terror.

Aragorn grabbed her hand and pulled her to stand between himself and Boromir, and both the Men had fierce expressions and held their swords in a menacing manner. As she watched, a host of wolves appeared and sprinted at the members of the Company. As the wolves advanced, a heavy rain of arrows expertly fell upon them, piercing throats and hearts, and Legolas had felled many wolves before the beasts had reached any other. Aila wondered that there weren't ten archers in the trees rather than one. Between Boromir and Aragorn she was not challenged to use her knife, and was glad for it, but the fighting Men became so engaged in their battle dance that she quickly became separated from them, and so, knees shaking, she put her back to the fire and brandished her woefully inadequate knife.

She was quickly seen by one of the wolves, and he stalked closer to her, snarling and circling. Aila backpedalled until the heat of the fire on her back was too intense and she knew she was too close to it already. She brandished her knife in what she thought was a menacing way, but the growl of the wolf sounded hauntingly like laughter. After a few agonizing moments, the wolf leapt, opening its wet jaws to attack her. Desperately, she thrust the knife at him, forgetting entirely the maneuvers Glorfindel had taught her in her fear, and the wolf dodged her attack easily, and his jaws clamped down on her left forearm, which she had lifted to block her face and throat. The power and weight of the wolf dragged her down, and she fell to her knees, glancing briefly into the yellow eyes of the beast whose teeth tore through the skin of her arm. He looked back at her with an evil expression. He jerked his head, bringing her arm with him, and his teeth tore through her skin and blood sprang readily to wet his tongue. She was momentarily blinded with pain, and that pain gave rise to righteous anger. Her anger frothed in her mouth and singed her nostrils, replicated in the heat against her back. She gritted her teeth and felt nothing but supreme infuriation. She raised her right arm again and drove the knife deep into his neck, all the way to its hilt. She had driven it with such force that the tip of her knife was exposed again from the other side of his neck. The wolf gave a surprised noise, gurgling and growling in pain. Aila gripped the handle of her knife tightly and jerked it toward her with as much force as she could muster, and its blade tore through soft interior tissue in the wolf's throat. The wolf gave a disgusting gurgle that horrified her and he fell dead to the ground.

Some twenty or thirty feet from her, Aila saw Gandalf grow to an impossible size, and he wielded a flaming bough and strode in impossibly long steps to the outer circle of rocks. The wizard raised the flaming bough high in the air and he cried an incantation, his voice was again loud and terrible. The entire grove of trees burst into flame and ash fell on the Company like a heavy rain. The wolf-chieftain stepped now into the interior of the crested hill, her fur stood up along the ridge of her back, yellow teeth bared, and ears flat against her skull. Her frame was enormous and her paws were larger and longer than they should have been on a normal wolf. Upon seeing her, Legolas retrieved his last arrow from his quiver and, stringing it, his bow sang one last sweet note. The arrow flew true, alighting on its deadly path, and thudded, flame extinguished on impact, into the wolf-chieftain's heart. The mighty wolf fell and upon seeing the burning carcass of their chief, the rest of the wolves fled, howling and yammering.

Knowing that the fight was over, Aila turned back to her attempts to release her left forearm from the death-grip of the wolf she had killed. She bent to this task for only a fraction of a second when she heard Legolas cry, "_Ai_!" and he rushed toward her. But as he put his hands to the wolf's jaw to try to loose it, she pushed him roughly back with her right hand, the anger in her chest still frothing and boiling. The Elf looked at her with surprise and anguish, but she ignored him and turned back to working her fingers between the wolf's teeth, prying its jaws apart. She managed to inch it open and was able to just barely pull her arm from its jaw. Legolas' hands were immediately once more on her arm, desperately tearing the fabric of her sleeve back and examining the wounds in her skin. Pain rushed up and it washed away the anger it had originally given rise to, and as the wall of anger gave way to that flood of pain, she felt weak and did not push Legolas away again. She sat wordlessly as she allowed him, and Aragorn who followed quickly after, to look at her arm.

The Ranger quickly tore the forearm of her sleeve entirely off and, after washing the wounds with water she begged him not to spare, he wound the make-shift bandage tightly around her arm, and small blossoms of blood immediately began forming through the fabric. As he finished this, Merry's voice suddenly rose in a cry of shock, and as they looked to the spot where he pointed, they saw the wolf which Aila had killed was nowhere to be seen. The blade that Glorfindel had given her lay forgotten on the ground and had not a spot of blood on it. Legolas stood quickly and ran swiftly about the hill, finding only arrows that had found their marks but which now lay lonely and singular on the ground.

"It is as I feared," said Gandalf, leaning heavily against his staff. His voice was strong but somewhat breathless. "These were no ordinary wolves hunting for food in the wilderness. The Wargs have come west of the Mountains! Let us eat quickly and go! We must reach the gates by sunset."

The Company went forward with a will, as it seemed ill-fate to all of them to be trapped between wall and wolves in the open night. Aila cradled her injured arm against her chest, hooking her fingers around her collar so that her forearm stayed cushioned in a stationary position between her breasts. And she walked swiftly, fearing another confrontation with the Wargs, but also fearing that each step brought her closer to Moria.

. . .

_Ai!_ = an exclamation, high emotion


	13. A Journey in the Dark

A Note From the Author: I'm back! I apologize for the absence and as a reward for your patience, please enjoy this particularly long chapter. Thanks again for all of your support and kind words.

. . .

Ch. 13 A Journey in the Dark

Morning turned to afternoon, the afternoon grew late, and the view of the quickly sinking sun sank also the hopes of the Company as they trudged doggedly on, knowing that they could not stop until they reached the Mines of Moria. They knew that they sought after a stream, Sirannon, which would lead them to the Doors, but the barren, dry land gave no hint to moisture anywhere. They despaired as they walked, fearing always the wolves at their back. Aila kept her eyes downcast and watched the ground immediately before her. Her jaw was tightly set and her teeth clenched together unconsciously, and her brow was furrowed with concern as she marched blindly on, following the feet of Boromir in front of her. Only Gimli walked forward eagerly, and he was quickly several lengths in front of the rest, driven by his eagerness to gaze on the halls of the Dwarrowdelf.

Aila's step was quick but heavy. The thought of the wolves behind her drove her on to quicken her walk, but the thought of Moria ahead, of its darkness and the ill omen it bore, kept her heart heavy and her tread weighty. Sometimes she caught herself watching forlornly the back of Gandalf the wizard as he walked ahead of her. His shoulders were rounded and his back slightly bent but he carried his staff lightly and his robes flew about quickly moving feet. Sometimes she stole a glance at Legolas, who walked beside her, and she found that his eyes were constantly turned on her. He looked at her with sorrowful and fearful eyes, and they watched her expectantly, as though he hoped that she would suddenly provide them with a path which would not lead them down in to the depths of Moria. That look, those blue eyes, tore at her and it was painful to look at him. So she kept her eyes determinedly on her feet as she walked ever on.

Ahead of them, Gimli gave a joyful shout that froze her heart. The Dwarf had spotted the remnants of Sirannon, barely a trickle among dusty red rocks and hardly enough to be called a stream, but still they followed it. Its water led them to the foot of a stairway cut into the rock, which led them up and, probably, to the doorway of Moria. Before he mounted the first stair, Legolas' eyes were again urgently upon Aila and he wordlessly begged her that she save him from going on. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, and she could nearly hear the sound of his heart plummeting at the acknowledgement that he would have to pass through Moria. As opposed to Caradhras, the Elf appeared the most affected of any of the Company at the prospect of traveling beneath that mountain. Aila turned her face from him and quickly climbed the steps. Before the party, at the zenith of the stair, there sat a stagnant and polluted lake: the remaining water of the once-swift Sirannon.

They traveled now around the lake, and the sheer rock-face at its far shore was still a mile or two off. Aila saw that Legolas dragged his feet, literally scuffing his heels against the ground as he moved forward; it was the most noise she had ever heard him make while walking. She kept her eyes down at her own feet and could not bring herself to look up at him or attempt an encouraging expression.

The Company came to a part of the path which they could not pass, and in their foul moods quickly despaired, for the path was inundated with the murky, dark water of the lake. But Gimli strode forward into the water and found that it was no more than an ankle deep so, faltering and unhappily, the Company followed. Aila was glad that her boots were high enough to keep the water off of her skin entirely, but she thought that the dirtiness of that lake-water still managed to seep, in essence, into her boots and pollute her skin. As she crossed, she found the way treacherous as there were many slippery and greasy rocks which lined the bottom of the lake and which she had to take great care to keep herself from slipping. Whenever she did falter in the slightest, Legolas did not rush to assist her as usual. His attention was turned too wholly to regard the dirty lake and to twist his features into expressions of disgust, sorrow, and desperate fear.

"Well, here we are at last!" cried Gandalf as they reached the wall of the mountain on the other side of the lake, but his relief was mitigated by the trial that lay before them. "Here the Elven-way from Hollin ended. Holly was the token of the people of that land," and he gestured to the two large holly trees which rose mightily at the foot of the mountain. Their trunks and boughs were black and leafless. They struck an impressive but grim figure. "Those were happier days," said Gandalf sadly, and his eyes were lost in memory, "when there was still a close friendship at times between folk of different race, even between Dwarves and Elves."

"It was not the fault of the Dwarves that the friendship waned," grunted Gimli, puffing out his chest and hefting his axe in a proud and menacing manner. He jutted out his chin toward Legolas.

The Elf looked at him angrily and incredulously, and his rising anticipation and anxiety at entering Moria – a place which this Dwarf looked upon with sinful excitement – fouled his mood. "I have not heard that it was the fault of the Elves," he responded bitterly, and his hand came to rest on the hilt of his long knife. Aila quickly put her hand on the Elf's and drew his fingers from the knife.

"It was probably both," she said chidingly and both Elf and Dwarf deflated.

"I beg you two, Legolas and Gimli, at least to be friends, and to help me. I need you both. The doors are shut and hidden, and the sooner we find them the better. Night is at hand!" As if in response to the wizard's warning, distant howls rent the air, and night was quickly descending upon them.

As the three searched for the Doors, the rest came to relieve Bill of his burdens, since the pony could not follow them into Moria (though Sam staunchly protested). They sorted quickly through what they must bring and what could be left behind, a task which largely fell to Aragorn and Boromir because both Men were much more willing to part with supplies than the hobbits were. Aila watched them silently, though her attention was much more often held in watching the Elf, Dwarf, and wizard at the wall. Gimli walked to and fro, stroking his beard, mumbling quietly to himself, and occasionally tapping against the stone with his axe. Legolas was pressed bodily against the stone, and his ear was pressed against it and his eyes closed as though he were listening intently. Gandalf sat upon a rock and had his chin in his hands, and his eyes moved rapidly over the wall, but otherwise he did not move. Gandalf sat, and the wolves' howls grew louder, and the moon rose above the horizon, throwing a beam a light into the wizard's eyes. He suddenly jumped at this stimulus and rushed to the wall. The wizard pressed his hands against the rock and called out an incantation powerfully, and where his hands passed over the gray rock, silvery lines began to grow.

Though the silver threads were blurred and broken in some spaces, the general outline of a set of Doors could be seen, and several decorative features on their face which Legolas and Gimli both shouted out in recognition of. There were the emblems of Durin, the Tree of the High Elves, and the Star of Fëanor. Across the top of the door, in elven letters, Gandalf read aloud to them the message: "_The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, Friend, and enter._ And below that: _I, Narvi, made them. Celebrimbor of Hollin drew these signs._"

"What does it mean by _speak, friend, and enter_?" asked Merry, his eyes were furtively glancing at the dark lake. Silent rings had begun forming at its center and were spreading rapidly to the shores.

"That is plain enough," responded Gimli, puffing his chest out again because he was able to display knowledge of the Dwarven doors. "If you are a friend, speak the password, and the doors with open, and you can enter ... But," the Dwarf said finally, and his chest fell again, "Narvi and his craft and all his kindred have vanished from the earth."

"But do not _you_ know the word, Gandalf?" asked Boromir incredulously, and there was a sour look on his face and a cold sweat on his brow. His hand clutched tightly to the Horn of Gondor.

"No!" said the wizard, and nothing else. He resumed his precarious seat upon a large boulder and pondered the Doors again. Occasionally he rose to shout a spell at the door, spreading his palms wide, or placing his staff against the heart of the Star of Fëanor, but the Doors of Moria did not budge. The dark sky was oppressive and the sound of the wolves was closer still. Aila shuddered and, forgetting propriety in her growing anxiety and terror, walked up to Gandalf and kneeled beside where he sat.

"If I may save your mind some trouble, Gandalf?" she began slowly, and he did not turn his head to look at her, but she knew that he was listening. "But the night is deepening and I fear, I fear very much the Wargs that pursue us – not to mention this stagnant lake and the Watcher within: for I fear its tidings and the horror it brings. What spells you will try to open these Doors will not work, for upon the Doors themselves is writ a riddle: Speak, friend, and enter. I would make it more obvious: Say 'Friend', and enter."

The wizard's head turned slowly to look at her, and his sharp blue eyes regarded her passively for but a moment. He suddenly sprang from his seat and shouted, "Of course! It is so simple and obvious, as are most riddles when you have solved them," and he laughed, and tugged happily on his gray beard. Aila thought that he laughed at the least appropriate times, but she was glad that he understood what she had said.

"Finally!" cried Boromir as the wizard stood and walked to the Doors. The Man was turning a small stone over in his hand, a nervous habit borne of his anxiety, and he said, "I grow tired of this foul lake and these howls of wolves." And before Aila could think to stop him, or even to move toward that purpose, Boromir thrust the stone into the lake. That forsaken stone skipped a few repetitions before sinking heavily into the greasy, murky water.

Aila shouted to him, "No!" But her words were already too late and sank to the ground meaninglessly. Behind her, Gandalf spoke loudly and clearly,

"_Mellon!_"

The _ithildin_ which outlined the doors faded, but the Doors themselves did not fade as the threads and lines which had previously defined them darkened and widened, a wide crack splitting the Doors. They creaked outwards until both doors stood open wide enough for eight Men to pass shoulder to shoulder. Beyond the Doors, a shadowy staircase led upward into the gloom, and was quickly lost in the darkness of the Mines. "Quite simple," mused Gandalf, again tugging thoughtfully on his beard. "Too simple for a learned lore-master in these suspicious days. Those were happier times!" he cried, and in his voice was again the sweet memory of distant days.

Aila wished he wouldn't linger and said quickly, "Enough talk. The Wargs grow closer and the night is deep. Let's go!" But even as her words left her lips, her fearful eyes perceived the sinuous tentacle which slithered from the dark water and, in a matter of moments, wrapped itself around the ankle of Frodo. The Ring-Bearer gave a loud, surprised shout; Bill the pony bolted away in the direction that they had come; and Sam drew his knife and fell to his knees, hacking and slashing desperately at the arm which had begun to pull Frodo back into the lake. At the hobbit's persistent stabs, the arm released Frodo from its hold and slithered haltingly back into the water. As it did, a hideous stench rose into the air, filling Aila's nostrils and closing her throat. She choked and tried to scream at the party, tried to communicate to them to run into the mountain, but she could not inhale against that putrid smell and she could not speak. Twenty more tentacles shot quickly into the air and reached toward the Company.

Gandalf shouted to the rest, "Into the Gateway! Up the stairs! Quickly!" Aragorn picked up Frodo and dragged Sam behind him as the entire Company retreated quickly into the dark passageway. Angry, groping arms fingered the cliff face and grabbed hold of the Doors, swinging them shut and slamming against them, throwing rock and tree against the exterior of the Doors. Their way was blocked behind them.

Gandalf led them now, with Gimli, and lit a small light at the tip of his staff, which guided them through the pressing darkness of the passage. It was a broad path that led them downward, deep into the Mines. Passageways constantly appeared to each side of the passage, ways which led into deeper and darker paths in the unknown.

They walked along the passage quickly, though they tried to dampen the sound of their footsteps. The hobbits walked silently, Legolas' light tread was barely to be heard, and Aila could only just make out the solid steps of Boromir and Gimli, and Aragorn's long stride followed at the rear. Aila rationally knew that she wasn't in any danger, at least until Pippin's fateful discovery of the well, but that did not keep the fear from gripping her heart and causing her heartbeats to flutter unhappily. The dark forced her eyes open, wide and searching, trying to find some source of comfort or light. She constantly looked about her to be sure that there were no enemies bearing down upon them – though she thought if this was the case, she might be the last to notice of the fighting Company she travelled with. Beside her, Legolas walked forlornly. Though his footsteps were quiet and light, his shoulders were hunched forward and rounded, and his expression was perfectly miserable as they walked forward. She felt him reach out and take her hand, wrapping her fingers tightly in his own long hand.

She was glad for the comfort and strength that his hand offered, and she moved closer to him, so that their bodies were touching. Aila's left shoulder was close behind his right shoulder, her arm against his torso and his against hers. Her right hand she lifted to grasp his upper arm, so that the entirety of her body was situated near his, and she walked forward, clutching tightly to the Elf, for several hours.

After a time, the mundane darkness persisted and, as no danger became readily apparent, Aila's fear began to wane. She thought now about the image she had created, of herself clinging tightly to Legolas, meek and afraid, as they strode through the passageway of Moria. The thought of the way she must look, a frail and afraid woman who had attached herself, irritating and clutching, to the first man who would protect her, turned her stomach and drove away the remnants of her fear with righteousness and irritation. Her mouth twisted in a frown as she thought of the entirely un-feminist way in which she was behaving. Aila had always considered herself strong-willed and independent, but the figure she must have struck as she hung on to Legolas as they walked caused a bitter taste in her mouth and her courage rose up to defend her honor against her own imagination. She quickly stepped away from Legolas, and cold air rushed against the side of her body which had previously been pressed against the Elf. As she stepped away, she also dropped her right hand from his arm and began to pull her left hand out of his grasp, in an effort to walk singularly and all of her own power in the dark depths of the Mines.

As she began to pull her hand out of Legolas' grasp, she felt his grip tighten around her fingers and his face turned to her quickly and he gave her a sharp look. Though she could just make out his features, as Gandalf's light was well in front of them, she could see his blue eyes were alarmed and his expression spoke of deep fear. She realized, ashamed, that their closeness had been as much to comfort him as it had been to quell her own terror. It was an unsettling feeling to think that she could provide him any comfort at all. Aila squeezed his hand in what she thought might be an encouraging manner, though she could not lift her lips to smile at him, and she saw that the straight line of his mouth relaxed a little. She kept her hand firmly within his as they continued deep into Moria.

After a long march, when Aila suspected that night had fallen once more, the Company settled down in the middle of the passageway to rest and eat. Aila and Legolas laid down on the cold stone floor of the passage beside one another, their hands still clasped between them. They looked at each other for a long time in the dark, and after Gandalf had extinguished his light, Aila's eyes adjusted to still make out Legolas' features in the dark, and his face was still turned to her. She whispered, as quietly as she could, "Don't worry, Legolas. You will see the Sun again."

She heard a faint rustling, but Legolas did not say anything for several minutes. Aila heard a slow intake a breath, and the Elf asked, the words forming slowly on his lips, "Will you?" But Aila could not answer, and his fingers tightened over hers as they lay wordless in the dark.

. . .

Aila was awoken several hours later by Aragorn, as Legolas had left to stand watch over the Company. They resumed their trek again, walking through the darkness and guided only by the faint glow of Gandalf's staff. This pattern held for several days, and Aila lost count of the time that they had passed underground. Perhaps it had been a week, or maybe two; she couldn't be sure, and the timelessness of the darkness gave her no concept of day or night. At last, they came to the an end to the passageway they had been following, and before them it split into three avenues: the left passage departed downward, deeper into the Mines; the middle way looked to go on evenly into the darkness; and the rightmost passage had a steep incline as it disappeared in the murky lightlessness that held Moria. Here, Gandalf paused, and the rest wordlessly gathered around him to regard the passages.

"I have no memory of this place at all," the wizard said doubtfully, and his left hand raised to tug thoughtfully on his beard. He stood for several minutes regarding the passages, he lifted the light of his staff to see if there was any lettering above the passageways and there was none, and as he regarded the archways before him the Company milled about behind him. They looked uncertainly at one another and Frodo's eyes were cast steadfastly on the ground and his feet. After a time, Gandalf said softly, "I am too weary to decide." And he turned back to the Company. "We had better rest here for what is left of the night. You know what I mean!" he cried when Boromir opened his mouth sullenly to point out they didn't know whether it was night or day.

To the left of the passageways, they found a wide chamber cut in the rock, the remains of what might have been a guard-room, and they all filed into it to seek shelter for their rest. It was the most shelter that they had found since entering Moria and they were all glad to get out of the wide passageway for even a little while.

In the center of this chamber, a wide hole was found in the floor, what might have been a well, and the Company took great care to set up their bedrolls as far from the well as possible. It seemed to all of them to harbor ill-will. Except to Pippin, whom Aila watched with anxious eyes. She saw the hobbit walk closer and closer to the well, curious eyes regarding its dimensions and peering down into it. As if in slow motion, she watched as he lifted a small stone from the floor beside the well and turned that stone in his fingers a few times. He lifted that hand and held the stone, perilously, over the well.

Terror gripped Aila, and it froze her thoughts and she moved jerkily towards him, her movements faltering and unsteady. Her voice rang out, too loud and too deep in her fear and desperation: "NO!" Immediately, she realized what she had done and clapped both of her hands to cover her mouth, but that did not stop the noise that had already left her lips. It rang out like a death knell, a louder noise than any had heard since their entering Moria, and it rang and hurt their unaccustomed ear-drums. Her warning reverberated and echoed, bouncing off of walls, turning on itself and fading, though not quickly enough. She heard it echo several repetitions, bouncing along the walls of the passage and down, down into the depths of that well.

Gandalf spun around at the sound of her loud voice, his thick eyebrows bristling with anger as he looked at her, and then he saw what she had seen: Pippin, kneeling before the well, that fated rock still held in his fingers, and he was frozen in that position from alarm and fear. "Fool of a Took!" the wizard whispered harshly, just as Aila's voice and its echoes had faded. She waited, still with her hands layered over her closed lips, and her eyes roved wildly, trying to look in every direction at once, as she waited, hoping and praying that her voice would not have the effect that Pippin's rock might have. And deep within the Mines, there arose a sound which chilled her blood and froze her heart, and she thought that tears sprang readily into her eyes, though her body was too numb to feel anything of the sort. As drums in the deep came a sound:

_Tom-tap, tap-tom_.


	14. Balin, Son of Fundin

Ch. 14 Balin, Son of Fundin

Pippin was made to stand watch as punishment, and the small figure of the hobbit could be seen in the doorway of the guard-room chamber, huddled against the right side of the door jamb and hunched over, his knees lifted against his chest. Aila tried to move as quietly as she could as she laid down on the cold stone floor, Legolas close beside her, as though extra silence now could possibly make up for the damage she had done only minutes before. The sounds in the deep, like hammer on drum, had faded. Its sound, however, still echoed hauntingly through her mind and caused her to clench her jaw tightly closed in fear and anxiety. Her stomach turned and she felt anxious and queasy, and her intestines felt like they were twisting nervously around themselves, and stomach acid was in her tight throat. Her heart beat furiously and unsteadily, her eyebrows were knitted together in an expression of worry and apprehension, and she was biting the inside of her bottom lip so voraciously that she tasted blood. Legolas saw her unease as he lay down not a foot from her, and so he reached out a delicate hand to her in a comforting way, but the Elf unthinkingly grasped her left forearm, and his thin fingers were pinpricks of pain on her sore and unhealed wounds. She jerked her arm back crossly and gave him an angry look which was borne of her fear and pain, and she folded both arms over her chest and rolled over so that her back was to Legolas. Every fiber of her being was uncomfortable and jittery, and the feeling of Legolas' eyes on her back did not ease her thoughts or slow them, but rather accelerated their discomfort and increased the sickness she felt in her stomach and the emptiness she felt in her chest.

After an hour or so, as Aila still lay painfully awake and distraught in her feelings of unease, she saw that Gandalf rose to relieve Pippin of his watch, and the hobbit gratefully went to sleep between Merry and Frodo. She waited some minutes more, until she smelled the unmistakable odor of tobacco. The smoke filled her nose and lungs and in her present state, it was oddly comforting, and so she took several deep breaths to relax herself before she rose. As she stood, she happened to glance at Legolas and saw that he was still awake, lying in the same position he had been an hour before, and his eyes watched her movements softly. Aila moved to the door and sat down in the doorway beside the wizard, leaning her back against the left of the door jamb, and though he did not turn his head to look at her, she could see, as the tobacco alighted with each inhaling breath, that his deep blue eyes gazed at her.

"There are no amends I can make for earlier," she began, after slowly screwing up the courage to address the wizard she had doomed. He made a small grunting noise in response. "It was a fate which I had wished to avoid, but it could not be so. Still, I think there is some assistance I can give you in choosing our path, and I think that I will only tell you what is already on your mind. Of that I will say: you do not like the feel of the middle way, and you do not like the smell of the left – can you smell it? It has a foul odor and the air of that passage is tainted, I guess. And, perhaps, it is time we were climbing up."

He still did not say anything in response, but took a few more slow and deep pulls of his pipe, and a hand rose to tug softly on his beard. At length, he nodded slowly to her, and turned his head back to the passages that lay before them.

She left the wizard still smoking in the doorway, after urging him to rest himself, and she laid back down beside Legolas. The Elf's eyes still watched her intently, but he did not move as he watched her settle back down on the stony floor. After inhaling slowly and deeply, trying to calm her nerves, she reached out a hand to Legolas and grasped his, which he accepted quickly and warmly, and she closed her eyes to sleep. It was a fitful sleep, and filled with nightmares, and it seemed a long time before Gandalf roused them to march again.

Gandalf led them along the rightmost passage, as Aila had suggested to him, and the path rose steadily upward, in what seemed great spirals. As they rose, the passage grew loftier and wider, until the walls disappeared altogether and they found themselves in a great empty space, though it was too dark and black to see more than ten or fifteen feet before them in Gandalf's dim light. Their footfalls echoed dimly and distantly, as though the sound traveled a great distance before it was rebounded towards them. A chilled but stale breeze wafted against their heated skin, and the humid air of the passage still pressed against their backs. Though the air on their faces was probably still quite warm, it felt icy against their skin. Aila shivered unconsciously as the draft blew against sweaty skin.

"I will now risk a little light," said the wizard as they walked into this open space, and he tapped his staff twice against the ground, the distinct sound of its tapping echoed throughout the space, and then he lifted his staff and a bright light blazed from its tip. Shadows rose and fled from the light as it spread, and the Company saw great pillars risen before them, and a roof far above their heads. The walls of the great hall were black and smooth and glittered in the light. There were three more archways in each wall of the hall, and then the light was gone. Gandalf chuckled deeply, placing a hand against his chest, and said happily, "I chose the right way. At last we are coming to the habitable parts, and I guess that we are not far now from the eastern side. But we are high up, a good deal higher than the Dimrill Gate, unless I am mistaken."

The Company huddled into a corner to settle down for a rest, and their location in the corner shielded them a little from the constant draft which drove through the hall. Its air was refreshing to Aila, as it was cooler and its movement drove the humidity from the room and she was able to breathe easily. Still, her chest was constricted tight and she knew she could not sleep when the doom of the wizard was so near at hand. She sat watch with Frodo, and with Aragorn and Gimli and Merry in turn, before Legolas came for his watch and silently forced her to lie down in the middle of sleeping forms with strong and gentle hands.

Aila woke to glaring light and opening her eyes wider than mere slits was painful for her unadjusted eyes, which had for so long struggled to find light in the darkness. The morning streamed through long shafts cut into the mountain, and the thought that a world still existed outside the darksome hole of Moria was comforting to her. They breakfasted and gazed about the great hall which surrounded them, and they blinked against the dim light, which to their unadjusted eyes was still overwhelming in its brightness.

"Come," said Gandalf, standing and arranging his robes about his feet as he hefted his staff. "We will explore this hall until we can decide where to go from here. A wrong turn would be folly at this point." Together, they went through the northern archway because they had seen a glint of brighter light and had hopes of finding a window, but they found themselves only in a wide corridor lit by numerous wide shafts that rose far upward to the mountainside. They explored further into a nearby doorway, and Boromir heaved his shoulder against the door to open it a bit farther so that they might all pass through. As soon as Aila's eyes fell upon the square chamber, she froze and Aragorn, who had been walking behind her, bumped into her with a surprised look on his face. Dust rose up at their footsteps, and Aila grudgingly put her entire body into the space, though she stood near to the door and did not want to go farther into the chamber. In the center of the square room was a rectangular block of stone, shiny and black, and upon it was laid a great slab of white stone.

"There are Daeron's Runes, such as were used of old in Moria," said Gandalf slowly, as he lifted a hand to wipe away the dust that covered the face of the slab. Bold and rigid letters emerged from beneath the thick layer of dust. Gandalf bent over the stone and squinted his eyes, reading the runic lettering briefly before he stood erect again swiftly. "And in the tongues of men, it says _Balin, son of Fundin, Lord of Moria._"

"He is dead, then," said Frodo sadly, and he placed a penitent hand to his breast. Gimli said nothing, but the Dwarf lifted his hood and cast it over his face, and he hung his head for a long time. They all bowed their heads, mimicking the Dwarf, and stood silent by the tomb for a few minutes.

Legolas only watched intently, and he searched about the tomb, looking for signs of Balin's fate. He found an arrow driven deep into a wooden box which was laid in a hole hewn in the stone wall, and he placed both hands upon the arrow shaft to draw it out. When he had the full arrow in his hands, he glanced briefly at its shape and its head, and said only: "Orcs." At this word, the rest of the Company lifted their heads and became active, searching about the chamber. Their search produced a large book, with brittle and browned pages, which had been stabbed and partially burned and stained with blood and other dark marks. It was hardly to be read in some parts but Gandalf placed it delicately upon the great white slab and opened it, though that action alone turned some of its pages to dust.

The wizard leaned over the book, his eyes roving left to right quickly as he scanned the pages, and his thick eyebrows were knitted together and bristling as he struggled to read the words which had been put upon the page. As she watched him, Aila's stomach turned uncomfortably, and her intestines still twisted, and there was a cold sweat on her forehead. She leaned heavily against the stone wall, and eventually slid down to sit on the dusty floor and drew her knees to her chest as she tried to untwist the knots in her torso. None noticed her as they watched Gandalf intently, and in time the wizard began to speak: "It seems to be a record of the fortunes of Balin's folk," he said slowly, his eyes still upon the page. "Listen to this! _We drove out orcs from the great gate and guard – _I think; the next word is blurred and burned: probably _room – we slew many in the bright ... sun in the dale. Flói was killed by an arrow. He slew the great ..._ I cannot tell, but it follows: _Flói under grass near Mirror mere. _Some more which I cannot read, it is blurred and burned. Then, _Balin has set up his seat in the Chamber of Mazarbul_."

"The Chamber of Records," said Gimli heavily, his eyes still covered in the shadow cast by his hood. "I guess that is where we now stand."

The wizard continued to read from the book for some time, though Aila could not hear him. Her ears were listening, listening always for the drums which would herald their doom. She feared not only for Gandalf but also for herself: how could she beat off the attack which would soon come? She considered herself tremendously lucky to have survived the attack of the Wargs, and that had been as much to the skill of Boromir and Aragorn than her own good luck. But, she thought, Aragorn and Boromir, and even Legolas, could not be spared to protect her here, and that she would probably die, in this Dwarven chamber, deep in the mountain, in the Mines of Moria. Gimli's cry roused her.

"That is in Ori's hand," the Dwarf exclaimed, pointing to a passage in the book. "He could write well and speedily, and often used the Elvish characters."

Gandalf read Ori's words: "_Yestreday being the tenth of novembre Balin lord of Moria fell in Dimrill Dale. He went alone to look in Mirror mere. An orc shot him from behind a stone. We slew the orc, but many more ... up from east up the Silverlode. _Poor Balin! He seems to have kept the title that he took for less than five years." The wizard came upon the last page of writing in the book, and all could see that its writing became increasingly hurried and smeared and sprawling. "It is grim reading," he said after a pause, and with a sigh and a heavy voice, said, "I fear their end was cruel. Listen! _We cannot get out. We cannot get out. They have taken the Bridge and second hall ... We cannot get out. The end comes,_ and then _drums, drums in the deep._" He paused again to wonder what that meant, and the entire Company felt the dread of foreboding. Each imagination turned cruelly as they imagined the end of the Dwarves of Moria. "The last thing written is in a trailing scrawl of elf-letters: _they are coming_. There is nothing more." Gandalf's voice remained heavy in the air and none spoke, or even dared move. They all stood in silent thought, and Aila clutched her stomach as she sat on the ground. Tears were in her eyes but did not fall upon her cheeks, and they blurred her vision and the salt burned her eyes.

Aragorn suddenly realized that Aila did not stand with them, and upon spotting here on the floor against the farthest wall, he rushed to her. Legolas followed swiftly behind him. The Ranger fell to a knee and put his hands on her shoulder and against her forehead. "What is wrong?" he asked, as though demanding but his voice was soft and, perhaps, even fearful. He did not feel that her forehead was hot with fever, and so he moved a hand to her cheek, and to her upper arms, and shook her lightly until she raised tearful eyes to look at him. His eye were wide as he looked at her and his lips were pursed in a grim line. She could not open her mouth to respond, and as her heartbeats became louder and more insistent, she heard distantly, though not as distantly as she might have hoped, that fearful and hated sound: _Doom, doom!_ Drumbeats in the Deep, and Aragorn's eyes looked at her for only a fraction of a second before he leapt up again, dragging her with him as they stood.

"They are coming!" she gasped, only just managing to choke out words through her closed throat. Her heartbeats sped to match the dramatic drum beats.

"We cannot get out," said Gimli softly, as he echoed the words of the book which had told of the doom of the Dwarves who had come before them. His voice fell and he raised a mighty hand to sweep back his hood, and he hefted his axe.

"Trapped!" cried Gandalf, swiftly picking up his staff and casting aside the book which had distracted them. "Why did I delay?" he said desperately, "Here we are, caught, just as they were before. But I was not here then. We will see what ..." his voice faded quickly and his moved busily toward the door, holding his staff with tight fingers. The drumbeats echoed and were closer still: _doom, doom_.

"Slam the doors and wedge them!" demanded Aragorn, as he strode to the doors to satisfy his own command.

"No!" Gandalf shouted after him, and finished, "We must not get shut in. Keep the east door ajar! We will go that way, if we get a chance." There was a metallic ring as the Company drew their swords. Legolas pulled his bow from his shoulder and strung it swiftly with an arrow, his movements were so swift as to be unseen. Aila placed her hand hesitantly on the long knife that Glorfindel had given her, but she found that Gandalf was near beside her and he shook his head. "It is time for Núadin, I think. We shall need its assistance in this dark place." She put, then, a hand upon the haft of her sword, and it vibrated welcomingly at her touch, and she thought she heard a distant and pleasant humming. The pommel-stone felt warm as though it emitted a heat of its own. With a musical ring, she pulled the sword from its sheath and held it before her.

Gandalf's sword, Glamdring, and Frodo's Sting each glowed with a pale light, which meant that orcs were near, and the Company regarded their glowing blades with grim determination. But Aila's sword, Núadin, which she held aloft in front of her, glowed as well but with a dark red, angry light, and she could hear more clearly a distinct humming which seemed to come from the blade. The red glow pulsed as the humming grew stronger and the voice of the sword was set defiantly against the beating of the drums which came closer to them.

_Doom, doom!_

Gandalf's voice rang out, mighty and terrible, as he demanded: "Who comes hither to disturb the rest of Balin, Lord of Moria?" Something like laughter was heard echoing through the corridor, and Aila heard with fearful ears the black tongue of the orcs as they called out to one another. One deep voice shouted loud in command. _Doom. Doom._ Gandalf quickly thrust his staff past the door and there was a dazzling, blinding flash of light. The wizard turned back to the members of the Company. "There are orcs. Many of them, and some large and evil: the black Uruks of Mordor. For the moment they are hanging back, but there is something else there. A great cave-troll, I think, or more than one. There is no hope of escape that way."

"We will make them fear the Chamber of Mazarbul," said Aragorn grimly, and Gimli nodded beside him, the Dwarf's lips were pulled tight over bared teeth in a horrifying expression. In her hand, Núadin hummed angrily.

Boromir set his shoulder against the door and thrust it closed, wedging it with wooden splinters and broken sword blades. Almost immediately after he had done this, there was a blow on the other side of the door and beside her, Legolas stood tensed and ready. Slowly, the door began to grind slowly forward, the sound of its groaning and grinding were sickening to her and her stomach gurgled anxiously. Her heart leapt into her throat and she could no longer swallow. This, she thought: this is where I will die.

An arm, dark green or black, was thrust through a gap in the doors which were pushed open a little, and a slimy green foot was thrust beneath the door. Boromir swung mightly at the arm with his broad sword, but there was a sickening ringing and the blade glanced aside. The Man stood in wonder for but a moment as he saw that his blade was notched. Nearby, Frodo's chest expanded with rage and he rushed forward, wielding Sting. His eye bright with wrathfulness, Frodo sprang to Boromir's side and cried:

"The Shire!" and he drove his blade deep into the foot which was beneath the door. That hideous, toeless foot instantly was withdrawn, and black blood dripped from Frodo's blade. Boromir thrust himself bodily against the door once more and slammed it again.

"One for the Shire!" cried Aragorn. "The hobbit's bite is deep!" Though his mouth was open in a broad smile, the look in his eyes was grim and terrifying.

There came a crash against the door, followed by another crash and another. Despite the wedges, the door was flung open, and arrows whizzed through, though they missed the Company entirely. Orcs began to pour into the room, one after another, and sometimes two abreast when they could squeeze through. Legolas immediately shot two through the throat, and Gimli hewed the legs from under another that had sprung upon Balin's tomb. Together, Aragorn and Boromir slew many.

Immediately, one of the orcs came at her, with its sword raised and its face twisted in grisly ugliness. She closed her eyes helplessly as he advanced on her, but even as she closed her eyes, she felt her hands raise, which were both gripping tight to Núadin. The sword, of its own accord, parried and thrust, slicing through arms and cutting throats, and decapitating some. Its deep red hue glowed and the humming became more insistent, and as it moved, she unthinkingly followed, watching wide-eyed with wonder as her hands moved to defend her. After many orcs had fallen, the orcs retreated and Aila's eyes fell upon Sam, who was standing sturdily, his blade lifted before him, and a small bit of blood dripped from a wound along his hairline. A fire was smoldering in his soft brown eyes.

"Now is the time!" cried Gandalf, gesturing to Merry and Pippin, who were closest to the east door. "Let us go, before the troll returns!"

But as they retreated, and before Merry and Pippin could gain the stair beyond the east door, a great orc-chieftain, almost as tall as a man, strode into the chamber. His face was hideous and smudged, and his nose looked as though it had been made of clay and mercilessly smashed back into his skull. Scars riddled his blackened, scaly skin and one of his eyes were partially white with blindness, but he was still a horrific and terrible enemy. He wielded a broad spear in his left hand, and a hideously curved scimitar in the other. The orc turned aside both Aragorn's and Boromir's attacks, and went straight for Frodo, pointing his great spear at the hobbit and scoring a hit on Frodo's right side. The hobbit was thrust against the wall and slid, lifelessly, to the floor. Sam gave a great cry, the desperation of which rent Aila's heart, and the hobbit hacked despairingly at the spear and broke its shaft. With an angry cry, Aragorn's sword Andúril fell upon the orc's helm and split it with a metallic clang, and the orc fell with its head cloven in half. At the sight of their fallen chieftain, the orcs howled and fled again. The drums boomed out again and a loud voice accompanied them in dark command.

_Doom, doom!_

Aila immediately ran to Frodo, trying, fumbling, to sheath her sword as she ran. Stupidly, she fumbled as she ran and accidentally sliced her palm as she struggled to put her sword in its scabbard. Blood dripped readily from her cut, and at the sight of the blood, Legolas cried out her name and ran to her, where she now kneeled before Frodo.

"Now!" shouted Gandalf, pointing his own blade to the eastern door. "Now is the last chance. Run for it!"

Aragorn picked up Frodo and made for the door, pushing Merry and Pippin before him, and Aila followed swiftly after with Legolas behind her.

"I am all right," gasped Frodo, as he recovered in Aragorn's arms, and the Ranger almost dropped him in surprise. "I can walk. Put me down!"

"I thought you were dead!"

"Not yet!" cried Gandalf, pushing the rest before him and starting to slow as they all moved down the stairway beyond the eastern door. "But there is no time for wonder. Off you go, all of you," he amended as Aragorn protested, "down the stairs! Wait a few minutes for me at the bottom, but if I do not come soon, go on! Go quickly and choose paths leading right and downwards."

"We cannot leave you to hold the door alone!" responded Aragorn, hefting his sword and moving to follow the wizard back to the eastern door, which they had pulled closed behind them. The wizard spun quickly and held out a restraining hand.

"Do as I say!" and the wizard's voice was fierce and his deep blue eyes were piercing.

Aila reached forward and grasped Aragorn's hand and insistently pulled him back down the stair, as she whispered softly, "Aragorn, please." He looked at her fiercely for a moment, and nodded, and followed after her, still gripping her hand tightly. He quickly overtook her as they ran along the stair and was dragging her unsteadily behind him. At the foot of the stair, they stopped, panting, to wait for Gandalf.

The drum-beats broke out again: _doom, doom! Doom, doom!_ And after a few minutes, Gandalf came flying down the stairway and fell to the ground in the midst of the Company. Boromir and Aragorn hefted the wizard quickly to his feet and Gandalf raised a shaking hand to wipe his wet brow. "Well, well! That's over! I have done all that I could. But I have met my match, and have nearly been destroyed. But don't stand here! Go on!" he exclaimed as he realized they all stood, looking at him blankly. They began to move slowly forward along the hall as the wizard continued, his words rushed and breathless, "You will have to do without light for a while: I am rather shaken. Go on! Go on! Where are you Gimli? Come ahead with me! Keep close behind, all of you!"

And as they moved hurriedly along the passage, the drum-beats continued and rang out impressively and mercilessly.

_Doom, doom!_

_Doom._


	15. The Bridge of Khazad dûm

Ch. 15 The Bridge of Khazad-dûm

The Company stumbled along the passageway for a long while with Gandalf leading them, and the wizard felt his way along the path with his staff before him, tapping like a blind man. Aila allowed herself to be led by Legolas, her hand securely in his, and she knew that he was able to see better than any other in the dark, thanks to his bright and keen elven eyes. The air began to grow heated against their faces, and the mugginess of the passage's air grew as they continued to descend again, moving quickly towards the doorway which would lead them out of Moria.

"I think," began Boromir cautiously, as he followed closely after Gandalf near the front of the party, "that there is a light ahead. But it is not daylight. It is red. What can it be?"

"_Ghâsh_!" cried Gandalf, uttering the black tongue of the orcs. "I wonder if that is what they meant: that the lower levels are on fire?" Realization dawned on his face. "There is some new devilry here, devised for our welcome, no doubt. But I know where we are: we have reached the First Deep, the level immediately below the Gates. This is the Second Hall of Old Moria; and the Gates are near: away beyond the eastern end, on the left, not more than a quarter of a mile. Across the Bridge, up a broad stair, along a wide road, through the First Hall, and out!" The Bridge, he said, the Bridge; and the word stuck in Aila's ears and blurred out everything else. That Bridge. The Bridge.

They gazed out now in a large cavernous hall and saw that a great fissure had opened up at its center and to their right, and great flames leapt up from within it: the source of that red glow and of the heat which now assailed their faces. Had they descended through the eastern doorway of the great hall, they might have come out on the other side of it and been trapped. The flames now leapt up and shielded them from the onrushing orcs, who had descended on the other side of the flame. In the flickering firelight, the orc-faces were grotesque and terrible. The drum-beats were loud again:

_Doom, doom._

They saw not more than a few hundred yards in front of them a great yawning chasm, and a slender bridge which connected the sides. "Lead the way, Gimli," said Gandalf, and he pushed the Dwarf forward to the bridge. "Straight on, and up the stair beyond the door!" Arrows fell among them swiftly now, and one hit Frodo in the chest, though it bounced off again harmlessly. Another struck Gandalf in his hat, and stayed there like a black feather.

As they rushed forward toward the bridge, the light of salvation in their eyes, Legolas drew his bow and readied an arrow to fire back at the orcs, though it seemed too great a distance for his small bow. Aila's eyes were in front of them, so she was surprised when Legolas fell to his knees beside her, his bow and arrow falling to the ground, and she bent to grasp them before they fell off the edge of the precipice into the chasm.

"_Ai! Ai!_" he cried, and Aila thought that she had never heard his voice sound so strained and so fearful, and his voice was high and keening. She knew, without looking, what monster he pointed to, and a great dread gripped at her heart, freezing her blood in her veins and pulling her heart and lungs down into her stomach. She tried desperately to pull Legolas to his feet, to lead him across the Bridge, to urge Gandalf to follow them, but it was already too late. She couldn't think properly or quickly, and so she just tugged on the Elf's arm, thick tears in her eyes as she wished she had never come to this place. "A balrog!" the Elf cried, putting his hands to his face and weeping openly. "A balrog is come!"

_Doom! Doom!_

The Elf finally responded to her tugging insistence, but only to grasp at her legs and to pull her against him, but the force with which he pulled against her knees caused her legs to buckle. She fell to her knees beside him, falling with ungainly force and tearing her leggings, bruising her knees. Pain shot up along her femurs and down her shins to her toes. Legolas still grasped at her with desperate fingers, seeking solace, and put his face into the crook between her neck and shoulders, and he continued to weep.

"Durin's Bane," cried Gimli woefully, and he also allowed his axe to clatter to the ground.

"A balrog." Those words came slowly and in a deep, soulful voice. Aila's heart dropped now into her feet as she heard Gandalf's voice and the wizard gazed back mournfully at the demon which now stepped into the cavernous space. "Now I understand. What an evil fortune! And I am already weary."

A moment's glance back gave Aila the sight which she had feared since their departure from Rivendell: the balrog stood, threatening, in the path from which they had come. It was of man shape, but so inhuman it was disgusting and unsightly to gaze upon. Fire licked its heels and wrists as shadows enveloped and constituted its body. In one grotesque hand it gripped a tongue of fire, in the shape of a blade, and in the other it wielded a bolas, and this latter the thing cracked and whipped about the chamber, and a rumbling growl emitted from its chest.

Finally, after too many moments which they could not spare, Aila managed to pull Legolas to his feet, and she grabbed his hand firmly and pulled him along until they gained the Bridge. The Elf followed her stumbling, and tears were still in his eyes. He quickly regained himself, however, and rushed ahead of her, now pulling her quickly behind him as he ran across the Bridge. She stupidly glanced back again to see the balrog, and nearly stumbled off of the Bridge, but Legolas' firm grip kept her upright and on the correct path. The balrog had stepped forward toward them on the Bridge and Gandalf was bringing up the rear with Aragorn and Boromir. The drums beat more swiftly, as though in anticipation.

_Doom, doom! Doom!_

"Fly!" called Gandalf as he followed the Company over the Bridge. "This is a foe beyond any of you. I must hold the narrow way. Fly!" he called again, and raised his hands before him as he ran, as though urging them all to run faster by the gesture. Aragorn and Boromir, head-strong Men, did not obey his command, but stood fast some ten feet behind him where the wizard stood in the middle of the Bridge. The rest of the Company halted on the other side of the bridge, just where the stair leading up to the Gates disappeared behind a wall, and they watched, unable to leave their leader. Aila's eyes were filled with tears, but she could not tear her eyes away from the terrible scene which was unfolding. Her heart beat swiftly and unsteadily, and though her face was hot, the rest of her body felt ice cold.

The balrog took a confident step forward, flames leaping from its ankles as it did so, and brought itself nearly to the edge of the Bridge. She saw that Gandalf stood in the middle of the Bridge, leaning heavily against his staff in his left hand, and in his right hand, Glamdring shone cold and bright and menacing. The wizard looked for all the world like a frail old man, standing against all the horror the world had to threaten.

"You cannot pass," Gandalf said sternly, enunciating each word with a deep rumble. His voice was strong and certain, and did not reflect the bent gray-haired man before them. Unearthly wings spread forth from the shadows where there weren't any before and its wings, feathered in flame and boned with shadow, spread out to fill the enter chamber. Embers flew from its body and alighted in small fires below.

_Doom! Doom!_

The balrog took a step onto the Bridge.

Gandalf spoke again, louder now and more terrible, and his strong, deep voice resonated through the chamber, filling it more completely than the balrog's wings filled the space with their fire. "I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass," he enunciated this sentence again, and Aila felt the weight of purposeful magic behind it. "The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass." His voice had risen, commanding and exacting, and at this last sentence his voice had dropped but had lost none of its power. He spoke the last as though telling a secret to a dear friend, but the rumble in his deep voice was heard and felt throughout the cavern. The orcs were silent and the drum-beats were stilled.

Flame in the shape of a blade shot forth from the balrog and Aila was afraid it would strike Gandalf's bent form, but immediately the white flame of Glamdring leapt out to meet it, and the balrog's blade of fire was shattered, molten fire flying in all directions where Gandalf's bright sword had smote it. Flame rose angrily about the balrog, and the demon took another step forward, bringing himself fully onto the Bridge now, and he swung his bolas mightily in the air.

"You cannot pass!" commanded Gandalf again, and the wizard lifted his staff, and with power untold thrust his staff into the Bridge beneath him. The staff broke asunder and the Bridge trembled.

The balrog took another step forward, but even as the demon did so, the Bridge cracked and broke where Gandalf's staff had touched it, and it fell before the wizard and the balrog tumbled forward into the fiery depths beneath the Bridge. But even as the balrog fell, it swung its bolas, and the thongs of that fiery weapon wrapped around the knees of the wizard, and pulled Gandalf down into the flame. The wizard saw that Aragorn and Boromir still stood on the Bridge, mouths agape and watching as their leader fell, and the wizard cried, "Fly, you fools!" And was gone.

_Doom, doom._

"Come! I will lead you now," shouted Aragorn, running with Boromir back to the other end of the Bridge where the Company waited, astounded and shocked and disbelieving. The Ranger roused them: "We must obey his last command, follow me!" And they ran up the stairs and through the First Hall and met a guard at the eastern door of Moria. Aragorn quickly smote down the captain and the rest fled before them. Thrusting open the doors, they ran into the golden light of the day. They ran until they were out of bowshot. The drums still beat, but now slowly and Aila thought their temper was mournful. Out of bowshot, the Company collapsed onto the ground, turning their faces to the noonday sun that shined happily down upon them.

_Doom, doom!_

_Doom._


	16. Lothlórien

Author's Note: I have a few things to say. (1) Thanks for your continued support and reviews; I particularly enjoy when you are specific about what you liked (or didn't). It lets me know what is working and what isn't!

(2) On the same note, I have a feeling that the last few chapters haven't been particularly great or up to par. What do you think? I'll be working hard to restore the quality of the writing.

(3) I'd also like to apologize for the delay. I have actually been moving cross-country in the last week because I got a job in Boston, where I am now. Coincidentally, I was offered the job I had applied for on a whim and wrote Aila into. I promise this is the extent of my similarity to Aila and that I won't be falling through any mirrors.

(4) On Tuesday, January 11th, there were over 550 hits for this story. This absolutely blows my mind and I thought I'd share that little fun-fact with all of you!

(5) Ok, now I'm done.

On with the story. Enjoy.

. . .

Ch. 16 Lothlórien

The Company fell to their knees, hands raised to faces wet with tears, eyes only slits against the onslaught of bright, happy sunlight that did not assuage the misery and disbelief and despair that enveloped each of them. Aila moved despondently, her movements felt foreign to her and her body alien, and as the Company fell to their knees, she sank to the ground quietly beside them and sat without speaking. Tears still filled her eyes, thick, and some spilled onto her cheeks and rested there. Her eyes were red-rimmed and were a shining olive-green color, though the color was leeched away by her tears and her eyes were glassy. Aragorn alone remained standing, and though he did not weep his eyes were forlorn and his mouth was thin and straight and set in a determinedly somber expression. Aila and the Ranger looked at each other silently for a few moments, and Aila knew that though the Ranger did not cry, she cried for them both.

"Alas! I fear we cannot stay here longer," said Aragorn, and he moved to beckon them all to rise. Merry looked at him despairingly. As they stood, they all turned back to gaze at the Mountains of Moria, and they saw Caradhras farther north, winking happily in the sunlight, as though enjoying their despair. The bright light and blue sky did not refresh them. Aragorn put a hand to his heart and called back to the mountains, "Farewell, Gandalf! Did I not say to you _if you pass the door of Moria, beware_? Alas that I spoke true! What hope have we without you?"

Aila also put her hand to her heart and looked back at Moria. She tried to speak through her tears, but her tongue was thick and unwieldy, and her voice came awkwardly, "There is hope yet. The Company will manage, for the moment, without him." Frodo looked at her with an encouraged expression but Boromir's chest rose in a quickly inhaled breath.

"How can we trust you?" Boromir demanded in a sharp, loud voice. His cheeks held no tears, but his eyes were markedly glassy. The red rimming his irises only made his anger more terrifying. "Are you not an agent of the Enemy, as you seem now? You, who know of our fortune and fate, and who must have known of this event, but who did nothing to stop it? Our leader is fallen, and you stand before us to say that there is still hope?"

It was Aragorn who came to her defense. "Can you not see that she sheds tears? Fate, whether it is known or not, will have its way."

"The tears of a traitor," the shorter Man responded, and Aila saw that his hand rested on the hilt of his sword, "and false indeed." Boromir's eyes were still cast on her with a dark expression and even Sam looked at her with a distrustful gaze.

The two Men stared at one another for a long time but it was Aragorn who won in the end, and so they turned their backs then to the mountains and began to walk. As they marched on they passed the Mirrormere. Its water was dark and clean, its surface formed a smooth and pristine reflection of the mountain peaks that loomed above it. The sun's light reflected sharply off of the lake's surface and the effect intensified its light. Aila could not tear her eyes from the water's surface and it was unnaturally beautiful and precise in its reflection. The Mountains of Moria, where Gandalf had Fallen, twinkled in the sunlight and danced upon the waters of the Mirrormere.

They marched on, and each step brought ringing pain to Aila's knees, which were bloody and scratched. For a long time, she did not acknowledge or even notice the stinging and shooting pain for the emotional pain that was wracking her brain and weighing her heart. Though she knew that Gandalf was not dead, not lost, not Fallen, there was an aching in her chest and a flurry of mournful thoughts in her mind. It was quite one thing to rationally know that Gandalf's Fall was a part of the story, and yet quite another to live through the experience, to be present at the wizard's Fall, and not feel anguish. She questioned now her inefficacy. Could she have saved the wizard? Could she have at least prepared him for his mighty struggle? Guilt, then, also wracked her. It was her shout, after all, and not Pippin's stone, which had ultimately led to Gandalf's demise. These worries and thoughts and dull emotional aches culminated and built in her body until they manifested strongly in her physical injuries. She tried to hide her limp for as long as she could since the Company had haste to move on as quickly as they could, but soon Frodo and Sam began to fall behind the rest and a short pause was unavoidable. Aragorn produced some dried _athelas_ leaves, which he steeped in a small pot of boiling water, and with this water he first bathed the cut on Sam's head, which looked nasty and still leaked some blood. The Ranger also poured some water onto Aila's hand, which had ached and was sore where she had cut herself on Núadin. She was able to wash also her knees and her left forearm in the warm water, and the _athelas_ washed away the throbbing pain and the tight ache of broken flesh. Aragorn gestured then to Frodo to remove his shirt so that the Ranger could see his wound.

"I am all right," responded the hobbit, and his right hand went immediately to the bottom hem of his shirt, as though to keep it in place.

"No," cried Aragorn, reaching toward the hobbit with insistent hands. "We must have a look and see what the hammer and anvil have done to you. I still marvel that you are alive at all." The hobbit offered little resistance now as the Man stripped off the hobbit's old jacket and pulled off his worn tunic, revealing a glittering silver corslet of glossy rings. This also Aragorn removed from the hobbit's torso and he held the silver shirt up in wonder, shaking it lightly to allow the light to play across the ringlets as bright sunlight glimmers on salty sea waves. The shirt made a delightful and melodic tinkling as it moved. "Here is a hobbit-skin pretty enough to wrap an elven-princeling in!" the Ranger exclaimed brightly.

"It is a mithril-coat," Gimli said reverently, his eyes were round and aflame. "Mithril! I have never seen or heard tell of one so fair."

"The mail is marvelously light. Put it on again, if you can bear it. My heart is glad to know that you have such a coat." They remained in the place where they had paused some half an hour more while they ate and rested. Aragorn allowed the hobbits to continue the fire which he had built and the four huddled happily around it. Aila saw that even Gimli and the two Men kept close to the fire's light and warmth. She sat a bit removed from the group, haunted by Boromir's words and betrayed by her own misgivings. Her tongue ran across the embattled and broken skin of her inner lip, which her worried teeth had repeatedly torn away.

They marched again for several more hours and well into the darkening night. Still deep in her thoughts and the feelings of guilt which rose in her chest in waves, Aila did not turn her eyes outward to recognize the path that they were on. Presently, they came upon a great gray shadow which spread endlessly before them. They could hear, in the gentle wind, the rustling and singing of moving leaves, a low but penetrating sound.

"Lothlórien!" cried Legolas, a smile coming quickly to his lips and revealing glistening white teeth, even in the dark. "Lothlórien! We have come to the eaves of the Golden Wood!"

"Lothlórien!" Aragorn echoed, and his eyes looked glad and distant with pleasant memory. Though he did not smile as Legolas did, the Ranger's eyes looked wider and more alight than they had been before. "Glad I am to hear again the wind in the trees! We are still little more than five leagues from the Gates, but we can go no further. Here let us hope that the virtue of the Elves will keep us tonight from the peril that comes behind. We will go forward a short way, until the trees are all about us, and then we will turn aside from the path and seek a place to rest in."

Though Aragorn and the rest of the Company stepped forward, Boromir stood resolute, and he crossed his strong arms across his barrel chest. "Is there no other way?" he asked crossly.

"What other fairer way would you desire?" asked Aragorn, turning back with surprise and disbelief.

"A plain road, though it led through a hedge of swords," he responded, and still stayed where he stood. "By strange paths has this Company been led, and so far to evil fortune. Against my will we passed under the shades of Moria, to our loss."

"And against mine!" Aragorn interrupted, his voice filled the air suddenly and it was emotional and curt. Aila, surprised, watched Aragorn sharply for a long time after that. "There is no other way for us – unless you would go back to Moria-gate, or scale the pathless mountains, or swim the Great River all alone."

"Then lead on!" said Boromir, uncrossing his arms, and one hand fell to clutch the Horn of Gondor though his face showed no sign of his anxiety. Moonlight glinted in his eyes as he looked back at Aragorn and began to walk forward to follow the rest of the Company. "But it is perilous."

"Perilous indeed," Aragorn replied, his voice was soft and full of memory again. "Fair and perilous."

. . .

As they walked farther into the Wood, they began to hear the running water of a small stream, splashing against rocks and tinkling melodically.

"Here is Nimrodel!" Legolas cried, and he walked forward eagerly to put his feet on the banks of the stream. "Of this stream the Silvan Elves made many songs long ago, and still we sing them in the north, remembering the rainbow on its falls, and the golden flowers that floated in its foam. I will bathe my feet, for it is said that the water is healing to the weary." He stepped down then into the water of the stream, and Aila watched as the water flowed over his light shoes and darkened his leggings with dampness. His body paused a moment, and a pleasurable tremble went down along his spine. Then the Elf turned and called back to them, "Follow me! The water is not deep. Let us wade across. On the further bank we can rest, and the sound of the falling water may bring us sleep and forgetfulness of grief."

One by one, the Company followed him: Aragorn first and Boromir, slowly, last. Aila stepped into the water cautiously, mindful of slippery rocks at its bottom, but only soft and cushioned mud greeted her light step and so she put her feet fully into the water. The water rose high enough to crest the sides of her boots, and the crisp, cool water spilled into her shoes and pooled in the heel and around her sodden toes. However, the feeling wasn't unpleasant, and rather the cool water soothed blisters and aches and tight, sore muscles. The water gurgled playfully about her feet and sang a happy song as it rushed onward.

When they all had crossed, though they lingered in the water and all crossed slower than they might have, the Company removed themselves from the road a little way. They sat and rested and ate a little food. Aila put her back against a tree and leaned heavily against it, closing her eyes and listening to the sounds of the stream behind them. She tried to listen intently and pull the soothing melody into her aching heart.

"Do you hear the voice of Nimrodel?" Legolas asked from where he sat beside her. His shoulder was so near as to be almost touching hers, and he leaned his head towards her and rested it also against the tree trunk. "I will sing you a song of the maiden Nimrodel, who bore the same name as the stream beside which she lived long ago. It is a fair song in our woodland tongue, but this is how it runs in the Westron Speech, as some in Rivendell now sing it." He began to sing in a soft, low voice, in a melody that matched the singing of the stream and in a tone so quiet that it was barely heard above the rustling of the leaves. Aila knew that he sang for her and her alone.

"_An Elven-maid there was of old,  
A shining star by day:  
Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,  
Her shoes of silver-grey._

_A star was bound upon her brows,  
A light upon her hair  
As sun upon the golden boughs  
In Lórien_ _the fair._

_Her hair was long, her limbs were white,  
And fair she was and free;  
And in the wind she went as light  
As leaf of linden-tree._

_Beside the falls of Nimrodel,  
By water clear and cool,  
Her voice as falling silver fell  
Into the shining pool."_

His voice was soft and gentle, and it wrapped around her heavy heart and lightened it, strengthening her soul and soothing her mind. Her thoughts slowed and stopped altogether as she listened to his duet with the stream. The notes danced in her head, song of sweet water and song of Legolas' sweet voice. The words were sad and told of the lost love of two Elves, who both were lost and never found again as they sought each other, the slow harmony had an engaging sadness.

"_But from the West had come no word,  
And on the Hither Shore  
No tidings Elven-folk have heard  
Of Amroth evermore."_

Legolas faltered and ceased his song, and the ending of that song, or of the harmony between Elf and stream, or of Legolas' voice, broke Aila's heart asunder. "I cannot sing any more. That is but a part, for I have forgotten much. It is long and sad, for it tells how sorrow came upon Lothlórien, Lórien of the Blossom, when the Dwarves awakened evil in the mountains."

Gimli overheard Legolas' speech then, and he sat up quickly to address the Elf. "But the Dwarves did not make the evil," he said curtly, his voice thick and challenging.

"I said not so, yet evil came," sighed Legolas, his voice low and sad. Aila turned her attention again to the voice of Nimrodel, though the stream's voice, without Legolas' accompaniment, felt more hollow and empty than it had been before. "When the wind is in the South the voice of Amroth comes up from the sea; for Nimrodel flows into the Silverlode, that Elves call Celebrant, and Celebrant into Anduin the Great, and Anduin flows into the Bay of Belfalas whence the Elves of Lórien set sail. But neither Nimrodel nor Amroth ever came back. It is told that she had a house built in the branches of a tree that grew near the falls; for that was the custom of the Elves of Lórien, to dwell in the trees, and maybe it is so still. Therefore they were called the Galadhrim, the Tree-people."

"And even in these latter days dwelling in the trees might be thought safer than sitting on the ground," said Gimli, and the Dwarf's dark eyes gazed back over the Nimrodel, back to the Dimrill Dale, and then up into the dark canopy of the trees. Aragorn followed the Dwarf's gaze and nodded swiftly.

"Your words bring good counsel, Gimli. We cannot build a house, but tonight we will do as the Galadhrim and seek refuge in the tree-tops if we can. We have sat here beside the road already longer than was wise."

They went deeper now into the trees, still close to the stream, and found a reasonable cluster of trees with broad trunks and spanning unimaginable heights. "I will climb up," said Legolas, almost cheerfully. Aila could see that bathing his feet in Nimrodel, and singing her song, had freshened his spirit and returned his good cheer. She knew he was glad to be bathing in the light of the moon again, and not trapped beneath the ground in the murky, humid depths of Moria. "I am at home among the trees," he said with an almost smug undertone. "Though these trees are of a kind strange to me, save as a name in song. _Mellyrn_ they are called, and are those that bear the yellow blossom, but I have never climbed in one. I will see now what is their shape and way of growth."

"Whatever it may be," replied Pippin sourly, as he watched the Elf prepare to jump into the tree, "they will be marvelous trees indeed if they can offer any rest at night, except to birds. I cannot sleep on a perch!"

"Then dig a hole in the ground, if that is more the fashion of your kind" responded Legolas curtly, though his lips were upturned in a smile. His good humor had returned and he teased the hobbit easily. "But you must dig swift and deep, if you wish to hide from Orcs." He flashed a winning, handsome smile at Aila, which she did not return (his teasing humor and good temper reminded her only of how she had disliked him in Rivendell), and he lightly sprang from the ground. He grabbed onto a low branch, and swung there for a few moments, gaining momentum for another higher swing in to the tree, but a loud voice arrested his movement, and the command caused him to release his grip and fall, crouching, back to the soft earth:

"_Daro!_"

Surprise and fear were etched across Legolas face and he pressed his back against the trunk of the tree as he gazed into the branches. "Stand still!" he whispered urgently to the others, not taking his eyes from the tree, which his frenzied eyes still searched desperately. "Do not move or speak!" Soft laughter high above them greeted this exclamation and an Elven voice spilled out from the tree canopy. The voice, though soft and musical, did not sound friendly. Legolas responded, in the same heavily accented Sindarin that had arrested them from the trees.

"Who are they, and what do they say?" asked Merry, his square chin turned up, and his eyes were squinted as he struggled to see anything in the trees above them.

"They're Elves," said Sam breathlessly. "Can't you hear their voices?"

"Yes, they are Elves," responded Legolas, turning his face again to the Company; "and they say that you breathe so loud that they could shoot you in the dark." Sam immediately clapped his hands over his mouth and nose, with a sincere look of fear on his face. Aila could no longer stand Legolas' teasing and humorless jokes at the expense of the hobbits, and though Legolas' face was somber and not playful, anger still rose in her stomach.

"Stop!" she yelled at Legolas, and turned her eyes up into the trees, jutting her chin out in challenge. "Haldir!" she called out now, and the tinkling laughter in the tree-tops ceased. "Haldir! You will not shoot my friends!"

Rapid speech followed, in that accented tongue she could not understand, though Legolas was not listening to it, but rather staring at Aila in wonder. After a few moments, he recollected himself and turned an ear to the language in the trees. "They bid me climb up with Frodo; for they seem to have had some tidings of him and our journey. And ..." he paused momentarily, his eyes still fixed on Aila. "And Aila," he said at last. "Or, as they call her, _'rúthuig_." He paused again, and smiled a little at the epithet which the Elves in the trees had given her. "The others they ask to wait a little, and to keep watch at the foot of the tree, until they have decided what is to be done."

A silver ladder fell from the shadows of the tree boughs, and Legolas ran lightly up it. Behind him, Frodo followed and Sam followed after him, though the latter hobbit's face was red as he tried to hold his breath. Aila climbed up last, after Aragorn pushed her lightly forward. When she reached the _talan_, Legolas and Frodo were already engaged in conversation with three more Elves. The _talan_ was more expansive and comfortably large than she imagined, and she went to sit beside Sam, crossing her legs and sitting comfortable on the soft wood as she listened to the conversation and allowed her eyes to wander over the tree branches, the three Elves, and the _talan_ itself.

"Welcome!" said one of the Elves in the Common Tongue. "We seldom use any tongue but our own; for we dwell now in the heart of the forest, and do not willingly have dealings with any other folk. Even our own kindred in the North are sundered from us. But there are some of us still who go abroad for the gathering of news and the watching of our enemies, and they speak the languages of other lands. I am one. Haldir is my name." He held a hand to his chest at the introduction, and inclined his head slightly toward them. His words were slow but clear and did not falter, and his voice was deep and smooth. "My brothers, Rúmil and Orophin, speak little of your tongue. But we have heard rumors of your coming, for the messengers of Elrond passed by Lórien on their way home up the Dimrill Stair. How many are you?"

"Nine," responded Legolas quickly. "These here, two more hobbits; and two men, one of whom, Aragorn, is an Elf-friend of the folk of Westernesse."

"The name of Aragorn son of Arathorn is known in Lórien, and he has the favor of the Lady. All then is well. But you have yet spoken only of eight."

"The ninth is a Dwarf."

"A Dwarf!" cried Haldir, and he looked at his two brothers with an alarmed look. Aila clenched her teeth together in frustration. "That is not well. We have not had dealing with Dwarves since the Dark Days. They are not permitted in our land. I cannot allow him to pass."

Frodo leapt to the defense of the Dwarf, and said: "But he is from the Lonely Mountain, and one of Dáin's trusty people, and friendly to Elrond. Elrond himself chose him to be one of our companions, and he has been brave and faithful." The Elves spoke them amongst themselves in their foreign Sindarin accent, and they asked several questions of Legolas before Aila interrupted brusquely.

"You will let him pass!" she demanded, in a voice too-loud, but she was frustrated when she listened to their doubtful voices over the fate of her friend. "You will let him pass, and he will bring no harm to the Wood."

"Very good," responded Haldir at last, and he kept his keen blue eyes on her. His thick eyebrows were knitted together in a questioning and slightly angry expression. "And what of you? We have had no warning that a woman would be traveling in this company, and on so dangerous a journey."

Aila took a sharp breath and opened her mouth to respond, to tell Haldir that she was not important, to try to hide from the burden which had been laid on her in Middle Earth, but Legolas' voice quickly overtook her own and he spoke to the Elves with boastful pride. Perhaps there was some merit in his being the Elf that delivered her to Lórien.

"_T'Aearvenel!_"

For a heartbeat, there was a disbelieving silence as the three Elves turned their eyes to look at her, and they quickly swept over her features and greedily took in her image. They each leaned forward in their sitting positions and bowed their heads so that their foreheads nearly touched the ground, and they each cried in unison:

"_Eglerio, eglerio!_"

They each grasped her hand reverently in turn, and from that moment on none of the three took their eyes from her. At length, Haldir spoke again to Legolas, though, of course, he still looked at Aila in amazement and sad wonder.

"Your folk must not remain on the ground. The four hobbits shall climb up here and stay with us – we do not fear them! And Aearvenel, also, must stay with us, where we can trust that She is safe. There is another _talan_ in the next tree. There the others must take refuge. You, Legolas, must answer to us for them. Call us, if anything is amiss! And have an eye on that Dwarf!"

Aila looked to Legolas sharply, expecting that he would fight their plan, as it would be their first time apart since leaving Rivendell. She thought much of their fast-developed friendship since they had walked through Hollin. But Legolas did not lift his eyes to look back at her and instead, she thought, spent energy trying to avoid her gaze as he hurried down the silvery rope ladder. As his blonde head disappeared from her sight, an odd and unidentifiable feeling fell over Aila. The corners of her eyes burned but there were no tears.

Merry and Pippin were on the flet within a few minutes, and they were given food and drink by the Elves, and the hobbits happily ate their second, and much better, dinner. The good food and sweet drink warmed Aila and it became easier to ignore the constant gaze of the three Elves. She chose a large patch of the _talan_, far from the edge, and laid down to sleep, pulling her fur-lined cloak atop her like a blanket.

"'_Posto vae_," Haldir said quietly to her, as he handed his own cloak for her to supplement her own. She accepted it, and the weight of both cloaks was comforting and warm. She stared up at the stars which peeked through the fluttering leaves of the tree, and wondered that Legolas had left so easily, without a backward glance at her. But even as that thought worried her, as she noticed that Haldir sat carefully near to her, she realized that for the first time since the Company had left Rivendell, she felt safe.

. . .

_Daro!_ = Halt!

'_rúthuig _= angry one

_T'Aearvenel _= She is Aearvenel (Light Bearer)

_Eglerio!_ = Glory!

'_Posto vae _= Rest well


	17. Blind

Ch. 17 Blind

Aila did not recall falling asleep, or even being sleepy, but she woke now with a start and looked wildly about the flet. Her thoughts were slow to recognize where she was, but when her eyes fell upon Frodo, who also lay awake, she understood. There were sounds of a harsh and black language beneath them, and the tramping of many careless feet. Metal clinked and sodden earth squelched. A head suddenly appeared in the hole of the flet, between Frodo and Aila, and they were relieved to see the grey-hooded head of an Elf. The Elf looked at Aila first, and then to the hobbits, and Frodo whispered,

"What is it?"

"_Yrch!_" hissed the Elf, and he threw the rolled-up ladder onto the _talan._

"Orcs!" repeated Frodo, in a surprised whisper. His large blue eyes looked over at Aila and the Elf disappeared back down the tree. As the footsteps departed, the entire forest seemed hushed – even the leaves did not rustle and the water of the Nimrodel was quiet and not to be heard at all. The hobbit, braver than she, crawled to the lip of the hole and gazed down the tree for a long time.

After a few long minutes, Haldir came climbing up the tree swiftly and lithely, and he looked pointedly at all of them to check that they were still there. Sam, Pippin, and Merry still slept soundly. The Elf looked at Frodo and Aila, who looked back at him alertly. "There was something in this tree that I have never seen before. It was not an orc. It fled soon as I touched the tree-stem. It seemed to be wary, and to have some skill in trees, or I might have thought it was one of you hobbits." These words seemed to mean more to Frodo than they did to Aila, and she could see that he shivered quietly, though there was now no breeze to cool him. Haldir continued, and Aila's nerves began to calm as she listened to his deep voice. "I did not shoot, for I dared not arouse any cries: we cannot risk battle. A strong company of Orcs has passed. They crossed the Nimrodel – curse their foul feet in its clean water! – and went down the old road beside the river. The three of us could not challenge a hundred, so we went ahead and spoke with feigned voices, leading them on into the wood. Orophin has now gone in haste back to our dwelling to warn our people. None of the Orcs will ever return out of Lórien. But you must take the road south as soon as it is fully light."

It was still a few hours until daybreak, but Aila could not lay herself down to go back to sleep, so she sat up and stared at nothing through the leaves of the trees. Haldir came and sat beside her, and stared absently in the same direction. His presence was comforting, but it made her wonder that Legolas' closeness had always been due to his duty as an Elf to protect her and not from any convivial or friendly feelings, and this thought did not comfort her at all.

Sunlight came slowly, growing pale and weak from the East. It had a beautiful glow, however, as it shone through the golden leaves of the trees, and though it was winter Frodo thought that it felt like a cool and refreshing summer morning. As the sun rose thus, Haldir wakened the other three hobbits and he ushered all five of them down the ladder. The ground was a mess of orc-prints and the leaves which were on the ground were smashed and dirtied. Aila came down last after the hobbits, and just before Haldir, and she turned to see that the rest of the Company was already on the ground waiting for them. Aragorn looked at her with a worried expression, Boromir's eyes looked warily at the ground, Gimli gazed up at the leaves and the sun, and Legolas' eyes were closed against the pale sunlight and he looked to be enjoying its light on his face. Haldir's brother, Rúmil, also waited, a bit removed from the rest of the Company, but when he saw Aila he walked forward to her immediately and stood beside his brother.

They set out again, along the same path on the west side of the Silverlode and followed it for some way southward. When the sound of Nimrodel faded in the distance behind them, Legolas turned and raised a mournful hand in farewell.

"Farewell, sweet Nimrodel!" he cried, and he looked momentarily at Aila. She recalled his song, and its memory felt warm and welcoming to her, but he turned his eyes away again quickly. Aila walked now leading the group between Haldir and Rúmil, and Legolas walked at the back of the party.

After a time, they heard the sound of rushing water, and they came to a broad river. As they approached its bank, another Elf appeared, clad in grey, on the far bank. His hood was thrown back and sunlight glinted beautifully off of his long blonde hair. The Elf on the far side of the river tossed a thin rope to Haldir, which the latter caught easily.

"Celebrant is already a strong stream here, as you see," Haldir said, and Aila could hardly believe that the rushing river she gazed at could ever be called a stream. "And it runs both swift and deep, and is very cold. We do not set foot in it so far north, unless we must. But in these days of watchfulness we do not make bridges. This is how we cross! Follow me!" At this, Haldir fastened the rope around a tree, whose bark had been worn away where he tied it, suggesting that this was common practice. Once the rope was secure, Haldir sprang lightly upon the rope and ran across it swiftly as though it were a wide road. She stared stupidly after him as he did this, with her mouth slightly agape. Aila looked again at the swirling water and thought she would have better luck if she swam.

"I can walk this path," said Legolas, and Aila looked sharply at him to see if he had his typical arrogant look of mischief, but instead he looked rather solemn. "But the others have not this skill. Must they swim?" And though Legolas did not look immediately to Aila, Haldir did.

"No!" he cried from the opposite bank, and ran across again. "We have two more ropes. We will fasten them above the other, one shoulder-high, and another half-high, and holding these the strangers should be able to cross with care."

This slender bridge proved not too difficult for Pippin, who was the most sure-footed of the hobbits and passed quickly over the ropes. Sam fared not as well: he clung heavily and kept his eyes riveted on the swirling and swift water below him. Aragorn and Boromir both struggled maintaining their balance as they were both strong, tall Men. And though she couldn't be sure, she thought that Gimli kept his eyes tightly shut as he crossed the river.

It was suddenly Aila's turn, and she gave a steely look at the pale, eddying water. Legolas watched keenly from the other shore, and Rúmil stood there also close to the water's edge, so that the toes of his light shoes were dampened by the water. He looked wordlessly at Aila and had an expression that he was prepared to jump into the river to save her lest she fall. This image did not comfort her, or quiet the swift beating of her nervous heart, and so she tried not to look at Rúmil, or to Haldir, who stood beside her and had hands up and ready to support her. She stiffened her back and raised her courage, and placed one hand and one foot sturdily upon the make-shift bridge. When she put her full weight on it, the foot-rope swung slightly, and she clenched her hands on the highest rope so that her knuckles were white. As she moved out onto the rope, she began to move a bit swifter and surer, though she had never been graceful and it was desperately hard for her to maintain her balance. At the center of the river, she had pulled the highest rope against her torso, and had it situated so that it run underneath her breasts, which she thought gave her the best chance of balancing and support, and she managed, shuffling her feet along, to finally gain the far bank. Rúmil helped her step down from the rope and she walked shakily to the rest of the Company. Aragorn clapped her on the back and gave a small smile.

"I think I might have been better off swimming," she smiled at the Man, and he shook his head at her, but still smiled. Haldir untied the uppermost ropes and the two Elves, Rúmil and Haldir, exchanged places on the opposite banks. Rúmil waved a silent good-bye, and with one last worshipful look at Aila, turned to return to his post.

"Now, friends," said Haldir triumphantly as he looked at them all collected on the east bank, "you have entered the Naith of Lórien, or the Gore, as you would say, for it is the land that lies like a spearhead between the arms of Silverlode and Anduin the Great. We allow no strangers to spy out the secrets of the Naith. Few indeed are permitted even to set foot there." He produced then a thin cloth from his pocket and nodded to Legolas. "As was agreed, I shall here blindfold the eyes of Gimli the Dwarf. The others may walk free for a while, until we come nearer to our dwellings."

The Dwarf reeled back in surprise and held up restraining hands to the Elf, who had advanced a few steps toward him with the hated cloth blindfold. "The agreement was made without my consent," he grumbled angrily, shooting betrayed looks to Legolas and Aragorn. "I will not walk blindfold, like a beggar or a prisoner. And I am no spy. My folk have never had dealings with any of the servants of the Enemy. Neither have we done harm to the Elves. I am no more likely to betray you than Legolas, or any other of my companions."

"I do not doubt you," responded Haldir, his voice still deep and steady, but he did not drop the blindfold in his hands. "Yet this is our law. I am not the master of the law, and cannot set it aside. I have done much in letting you set foot over Celebrant."

Gimli, however, was obstinate and could not be swayed. He set his feet apart in a readied stance and placed one thick hand upon his axe, which rested, for now, safely in his belt. "I will go forward free," he demanded in a strong voice. "Or I will go back and seek my own land, where I am known to be true of word, though I perish alone in the wilderness."

"You cannot go back!" responded Haldir sternly, his eyes wide and demanding. "Now you have come thus far, you must be brought before the Lord and the Lady. They shall judge you, to hold you or to give you leave, as they will. You cannot cross the rivers again, and behind you there are now secret sentinels that you cannot pass. You would be slain before you saw them." This threat did not sit well with the Dwarf, and Gimli quickly drew his axe from his belt and held it threatening toward the Elf. Haldir drew his bow.

"A plague on Dwarves and their stiff necks!" said Legolas, stepping forward to calm the brewing fight. But Aila stepped quickly in front of Haldir's arrow, which was immediately dropped, and Gimli lowered his axe at Aila's back. She looked between the Elf and Dwarf for a minute.

"Come," she said plainly, spreading her hands wide to placate the fighting parties. "I will end this. I will be blindfolded as well. That would be best."

"And a merry couple of fools we shall look!" Gimli laughed, though she was glad to see he lowered his axe further. "But I will be content, if only Legolas here shared my blindness."

Legolas turned angrily at the Dwarf and cried incredulously, "I am an Elf and a kinsman here!"

"Now let us cry: 'a plague on the stiff necks of Elves!'" laughed Aragorn.

Aila looked back at Gimli and winked slyly at him. "Can you imagine any greater pain to the Elves than that their Light Bearer go blind into this, their most beautiful of Elven cities? Come, Gimli, we will walk blind together and force the Elves to regret their distrust of you." Gimli took a moment to consider this, and realizing what she said was true, gave her a sly smile as though they were the perpetrators of a clever, cruel trick. The Dwarf quickly agreed, and as Aila and Gimli both insisted on her blinding as well, though Haldir and Legolas stanchly protested, it eventually came to pass that both Aila and the Dwarf walked blind in the forest of Lórien.

"Alas for the folly of these days!" said Legolas, his voice again mournful and disbelieving. "Here all are enemies of the one Enemy, and yet She must walk blind, our salvation, even while the sun is merry in the woodland under leaves of gold!"

Aila's heard Gimli roughly inhale, and he demanded of Haldir, "I shall claim full amends for every fall and stubbed toe that you give her, if you do not lead her well."

"You will have no claim," Haldir said to Gimli, and he took Aila's hand and rested it in the crook of his arm as he led her forward. He said to her alone, "I shall lead you well."

She heard again Legolas' voice, and he conversed with Haldir swiftly in Sindarin. His breathless accent was heightened and it sounded as though the two were having a heated disagreement. Haldir's hand rested over hers where he had placed her hand on his arm, and his fingers tightened over hers. She heard Legolas' voice become more insistent.

"Legolas?" she said, and the conversation abruptly stopped. "Legolas, won't you lead Gimli? I think that he shall require the sure-footedness of an Elf while he is blind." Legolas did not respond to her, but Haldir quickly began to walk forward, and she followed, hoping that Legolas indeed had gone to lead Gimli.

Haldir described the forest to her as they walked; the golden leaves, the sparkling light, the music of trickling water, the mossy swards, the grassy hills, and the ferny undergrowth. The words and intricacies with which he described Lórien seemed, she thought, perhaps more beautiful than the things he described, and the poetry of his words lightened her heart and cleared her mind. She felt happy and safe and comfortable, even though she walked blindly and unsure. Golden light still penetrated through the thin fabric that constituted her blindfold, and she liked closing her eyes entirely against the light and, trusting Haldir, walking lightly forward. As they walked together, and talked a little, Aila began to develop a very strong liking of Haldir. The Elf was tall and lithe, as Elves were, but he was a bit more broad-shouldered than Legolas, and he had more masculine features and a square jaw-line. Though Aila could not observe this through her blind-fold, she still had the pleasure of listening to his deep, somber voice. She also liked that, as soon as he found out her name was Aila, he began to call her by that and did not continue to name her Aearvenel. Perhaps this was the most important factor in her quickly developing fondness of the Lórien-elf.

They slept that night on the ground, for they had now no fear of Orcs, and because Gimli and Aila could not climb. Aila laid down comfortably on the ground, with her cloak about her as a blanket, and Haldir left her to stand watch around their small camp. She laid there for a few moments, listening intently to the rustling leaves and the shuffling of the Company, and Sam, who already snored lightly not far from her. She heard and felt someone coming to lay down beside her, and a pair of warm fingers reached out and held her hand. She smiled, though it was partially blocked by the width of the blindfold, and she whispered, "Legolas?" But there was no response. She reached out, feeling with her fingers, and her fingertips touched the rough fabric of a tunic, moving lightly with the chest of her companion as he slowly breathed in and out. Tracing up the chest, along slender neck, her fingers felt long soft hair resting on broad shoulders, and she twined her fingers gently into this hair and ran its silken length through her soft grasp. She heard Legolas exhale slowly as she did this. Still with her hand in his, she put her head back against the ground and fell asleep. When she woke up in the morning, he was gone and the ground where he had been was cold.

As they walked again that day, with Haldir leading Aila again, their talk turned to the Elf Havens that lay west of the Shire. "Happy folk are Hobbits to dwell near the shores of the Sea!" cried Haldir, and his voice was thoughtful and sincere. "It is long indeed since any of my folk have looked on it, yet we still remember it in song. Tell me of these havens as we walk."

"I cannot," responded Merry plaintively. "I have never seen them. I have never been out of my own land before." He continued with some thought: "And if I had known what the world outside was like, I don't think I should have had the heart to leave it."

"Not even to see fair Lothlórien?" asked Haldir, and to this, Merry had to amend his statement. "Some there are among us who sing that the Shadow will draw back, and peace shall come again. Yet I do not believe that the world about us will ever be again as it was of old, or the light of the Sun as it was aforetime. For the Elves, I fear, it will prove at best a truce, in which we may pass to the Sea unhindered and leave Middle-earth for ever. This time, now, is upon us," and Aila knew that he was looking mournfully at her. She was the one who heralded the sunset of Elves upon this Middle Earth. Haldir cried out again, his voice was terribly sorrowful and pining, and the sound of it broke her heart asunder: "Alas for Lothórien that I love! It would be a poor life in a land where no mallorn grew. But if there are mallorn-trees beyond the Great Sea, none have reported it."

Shortly after this, a marching host of elves crossed their paths silently: they were hastening to the northern borders to guard against any attack from Moria. They spoke quickly and breathlessly with Haldir in their foreign accent, and Haldir translated the news to the rest of the Company.

"Also," he said, "they bring me a message from the Lord and the Lady of the Galadhrim. You are to walk free, Gimli the Dwarf and Aila-Aearvenel. It seems that the Lady knows who and what is each member of your Company. New messages have come from Rivendell perhaps."

He removed the bandage first from Gimli's eyes, at Aila's insistence, and Haldir said to the Dwarf: "Your pardon!" and he bowed low before the Dwarf. "Look on us now with friendly eyes! Look and be glad, for you are the first Dwarf to behold the trees of the Naith of Lórien since Durin's Day!"

And when he removed the fabric from Aila's eyes as well, and the cool air refreshed her humid skin behind the cloth, her breath escaped her lips in surprised wonder. The words which Haldir had used to describe the beauty of Lórien, though poetic and charming of their own right, had fallen horribly short of the true wonder and splendor of Lórien itself. Perhaps her blindness had robbed her eyes of color for too long, but the color and shape of the trees and leaves seemed vibrant and unreal. Their shapes were sharply defined and glowed brightly, though they looked to have stood through countless millennia, beyond the reach of Time. The golden leaves were so bright that it hurt her eyes to look at, but the warm browns of the earth were succor in their calming magnificence. She stepped forward now, all on her own, to drink in the beauty of Lothlórien, and thought she was enormously lucky to call this place, this Elven heaven-on-earth, her new home.

. . .

_Yrch_ = orcs


	18. The Lady of the Wood

Author's Note: As an apology for the delay, please enjoy a particularly lengthy update!

. . .

Ch. 18 The Lady of the Wood

The forest darkened quickly as night fell, but Haldir only uncovered his silver lamp and they continued on without stopping to rest. Though the darkness deepened around them and the shadows lengthened, Aila still did not feel uncomfortable or unsafe in the woods of Lórien, and with Haldir's beside her, tall and relaxed, she walked easily forward until, suddenly, the Company came into a vast openness. The pale evening sky above them only just caught the last rays of sun. Ahead of them, there was a high wall that seemed to grow naturally from the ground, constructed of thick interwoven branches and dark ivy leaves. Though it was not made of metal or stone, Aila thought that this wall looked equally impenetrable. Haldir smiled broadly beside her, a handsome smile that lit up his bright blue eyes, which were an icy-blue and seemed almost transparent.

"Welcome to Caras Galadhon!" he said proudly, lifting his hands as though presenting the city to them. Behind the living fence there rose a mighty and expansive hill, upon which rose the mighty trunks of mallorn-trees, their heights unimaginable and their widths awe-inspiring. Golden leaves fluttered in a slight breeze and the air had a musical but intangible ring in it, which sang just below their ability to hear it. "Here is the city of the Galadhrim where dwell the Lord Celeborn and Galadriel the Lady of Lórien. But we cannot enter here, for the gates do not look northward. We must go round to the southern side, and the way is not short, for the city is great."

And though Aila was already wearied from the day's march, she could not but walk forward excitedly as they passed on the westward side of the city, outside the wall on a white-stone pathway which was paved around its outer limit. Haldir offered her his hand, which she took easily, though with a sidelong glance at Legolas, who walked not far from them. Legolas' face was turned pointedly away from her when she looked at him.

At length, they came to a slender white bridge, and crossing it, came to a wide gate in the living fence. Haldir spoke some words to the deepening night and guards unseen swung the gate open to admit them. Thus the travelers all passed into the city of the Galadhrim. There was not a single Elf to be seen on the ground around them, but there were many voices high above them in the mallorn-trees, and the dark clouds of leaves were lit with bright lights like beautiful constellations. The entire scene had an airy and majestic quality, ethereal and elegant. The distant voices of the Elves hung in the air and washed over Aila like a pleasant dream. They came then to a wide pavilion, a tinkling and merry fountain at its center. The water gurgled and chuckled happily in the soft light cast down by the silver lanterns. Dominating the space at the edge of the pavilion was a grand tree, its silvery bark shone in the darkness and its branches reached upward in a regal, grandiose manner. Three Elves sat at the base of this splendid tree, at the foot of a white wooden stair which rose, spiraling against the trunk, up into the tree-top. These three sprang to their feet as the Company approached and Aila saw that they were clad in grey mail and wore white cloaks. Their golden hair shone in the silver light which fell from the lamps hanging aloft. The combination of the pale light and their pale features was handsome but ghostly.

"Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel," said Haldir, releasing Aila's hand as he stepped forward toward the guards. "It is their wish that you should ascend and speak with them." Without warning, one of the Elf-wardens blew a loud, clear note on a small horn. The sudden noise surprised Aila and she took a reflexive step back, which brought her clumsily against Boromir who put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. He misinterpreted her surprise and gave her a comforting look. "I will go first with Aila," Haldir continued, beckoning that she move to the foot of the ladder with him. "Let Frodo come next and with him Legolas. The others may follow as they wish. It is a long climb for those that are not accustomed to such stairs, but you may rest upon the way." Aila looked again at Legolas, as her nerves were tingling at the thought of meeting Celeborn and Galadriel, but his eyes were turned on Frodo and upon the stairs at his feet, and so she followed Haldir's beckoning and walked up the narrow stair beside him.

As they climbed, they passed many flets which they may have paused at, and though Aila was out of breath and red in the face, she did not pause or ask for a rest. She held her breath determinedly so that it did not come in exasperated and halting gasps. Finally, they reached the top of the ladder and came upon an enormous _talan_, which was like the deck of a broad ship, and upon it was built a grand hall. They paused for a moment while the rest of the Company gained the _talan_, and Aila took the opportunity to control her breathing and slow her heartbeat. She raised a hand to wipe sweat from her forehead and where the moisture had collected in her eyebrows. Once assembled, they entered the great house and found themselves in an oval room. The great silver trunk of the mallorn dominated the center of the space – and though it tapered toward its apex still formed a mighty column. The walls of the room were white and silver to match the mallorn, and the roof was golden and intricately carved. At the center of this room, before the mallorn and canopied by one of its branches, sat the Lord and the Lady in two white chairs, high-backed and filigreed with silver.

The elf-royals stood to greet their guests, after the manner of Elves, even though they were accounted mighty kings. They were both dressed entirely in white, with silver circlets upon their brows. The Lady's hair was a deep-spun gold which hung in gentle waves down to her waist, and Celeborn's long hair was a shining silver. And though no age showed upon their faces, their blue eyes were deep and wise and old.

The Lord Celeborn spoke words of welcome in their own tongue, and he said to Frodo: "Sit now beside my chair, Frodo of the Shire! When all have come we will speak together!" The hobbit quickly obliged. Aila stood still, flanked by Haldir and Legolas, and she saw that Galadriel looked at her warily. The elf-lady's face was turned away from her, but her shocking blue eyes were locked on Aila in the periphery of her vision. There was something in the elf-lady's eyes that Aila did not understand, and she shifted uncomfortably on her feet where she stood. Quickly, she was followed behind by the others as Celeborn called out a greeting to each.

"Welcome son of Thranduil!" he said to Legolas, who stood to Aila's right. "Too seldom do my kindred journey hither from the North." And to Aragorn who came up behind him: "Welcome Aragorn son of Arathorn! It is eight and thirty years of the world outside since you came to this land; and those years lie heavy on you. But the end is near, for good or ill. Here lay aside your burden for a while!" And, lastly, to Gimli, who puffed up behind with red cheeks, as he had not fully caught his breath since climbing the heavenly stair. "Welcome Gimli son of Glóin! It is long indeed since we saw one of Durin's folk in Caras Galadhon. But today we have broken our long law. May it be a sign that though the world is now dark better days are at hand, and that friendship shall be renewed between our peoples." Gimli bowed low at the elf-lord's words, and his breathing slowed.

Celeborn now turned to Aila, and he spread his long hands before him in greeting and bowed his head forward in reverence, casting his eyes to the ground at her feet. "_Eglerio, Intyalle, _Aearvenel, Sælrieth, Light Bearer of the Elven-race_. Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded 'wîn. Gi nathlam hi!_ Though we weep at your coming, we are yet glad. We have waited long for you." Aila stood awkwardly for a few moments, and then bowed her head slowly toward the two Elves, and Haldir lead her to a chair which was placed beside Galadriel. She sat in it uncomfortably, knowing that the Elf-lady's eyes were still turned wordlessly upon her, penetrating and untrusting. There was a thick feeling in her head, as though her thoughts were sludge, and an uneasy turning of her stomach.

The standing Company was given seats in a wide circle around Celeborn and Galadriel, and Celeborn began again. "Here there are eight," he said, rightly discounting Aila from the Company. "Nine were set out: so said the messages. But maybe there has been some change of counsel that we have not heard."

"Nay, there was no change of counsel," said Galadriel finally, and it was the first time she had spoken. Her voice was deeper than woman's wont and it rang out clear and strong through the room. Her voice was wistful but stern: "Gandalf the Grey set out with the Company, but he did not pass the borders of this land. Now tell us where he is; for I much desired to speak with him again. But I cannot see him from afar, unless he comes within the fences of Lothlórien: a grey mist is about him, and the ways of his feet and of his mind are hidden from me."

"Alas!" cried Aragorn, and he cast his eyes to the ground sadly, his forehead creased as his eyebrows knitted together. "Gandalf the Grey fell into shadow. He remained in Moria and did not escape." A great cry of grief and amazement rose up from the Elves in the room, and their beautiful voices were clear and terrible in their anguish.

"These are evil tidings," said Celeborn, putting his chin into a long, thin hand. And he frowned. "The most evil that have been spoken here in long years full of grievous deeds. Tell us now the full tale!"

Then Aragorn recounted what had occurred upon Caradhras, and the days following, with a faltering and breaking voice. The Ranger told of Balin's book and the evil which had come upon them in the Chamber of Mazarbul and upon the Bridge of Khazad-dûm. He spoke then of the balrog: "An evil of the Ancient World it seemed, such as I have never seen before. It was both a shadow and a flame, strong and terrible."

"It was a Balrog of Morgoth," interjected Legolas, with evident fear still in his voice, and there was a note of piteous sorrow that Gandalf had faced such a foe. "Of all elf-banes the most deadly, save the One who sits in the Dark Tower."

"Indeed I saw upon the bridge that which haunts our darkest dreams, I saw Durin's Bane," confided Gimli in a low voice, his dark eyes full of dread.

"Alas!" responded Celeborn, bringing his hand from his chin to rest against his cheek in terror and surprise. His eyes fell darkly upon Gimli, and the Dwarf could not return his stern gaze. "We long have feared that under Caradhras a terror slept. But had I known that the Dwarves had stirred up this evil in Moria again, I would have forbidden you to pass the northern borders, you and all that went with you. And if it were possible, one would say that at the last Gandalf fell from wisdom into folly, going needlessly into the net of Moria."

"He would be rash indeed that said that thing," said Galadriel sharply and in a grave voice. She did not look at Celeborn, but he closed his mouth tight against her easy reproof. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. Those that followed him knew not his mind and cannot report his full purpose. But however it may be with the guide, the followers are blameless. Do not repent your welcome to the Dwarf. If our folk had been exiled long and far from Lothlórien, who of the Galadhrim, even Celeborn the Wise, would pass nigh and would not wish to look upon their ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons?"

Gimli, hearing her words and being moved by her easy wisdom, stood and clumsily bowed in dwarf-fashion, saying: "Yet more fair is the living land of Lórien, and the Lady Galadriel is above all the jewels that lie beneath the earth!"

Celeborn shifted in his throne, and Aila watched him with great interest. The dynamic of the elven royals intrigued her, for though Galadriel deferred to Celeborn in almost every way, she was quick to correct and challenge him. It was Galadriel then, Aila thought, that held the true power in Lothlórien.

"Your quest is known to us," continued the Lady, with her blue eyes cast upon Frodo. The hobbit gazed back and looked unsettled in his seat. "But we will not here speak of it more openly. Yet not in vain will it prove, maybe, that you came to this land seeking aid, as Gandalf himself plainly purposed it in making you the guardians of our Aearvenel. For the Lord of the Galadhrim is accounted the wisest of the Elves of Middle-earth, and a giver of gifts beyond the power of kings.

"I will not give you counsel, saying do this, or do that. For not in doing or contriving, nor in choosing between this course and another, can I avail; but only in knowing what was and is, and in part also what shall be. But this I will say to you: your quest stands upon the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all. Yet hope remains while the Company is true."

Aila watched now, intently again, as the Lady held each of the Company in her gaze. She saw that Aragorn was able to look back at Galadriel and hold her gaze, his chin and face held strong. Legolas also held the Lady's gaze, though he did stutter for but a moment, and his wide eyes turned to Aila for the breath of a heartbeat, and then back to Galadriel. Blood colored his pale cheeks, but still he held her gaze. After a few more moments, with a kind smile on her lips as if with some happy memory or thought, Galadriel turned her gaze from the Elf and challenged each of the travelers with her hard gaze. Sam blushed, and Boromir cast his eyes to the ground, and Gimli placed a hand to his breast, and Merry and Pippin both withered in her gaze with embarrassed expressions.

As she watched, she suddenly realized the import of the event she witnessed: Galadriel was reaching into each individual's mind and divining their deepest and most sacred desire. She communicated with them through her thoughts and challenged their devotion to Frodo and to their quest, but importantly – most importantly – she was accessing their minds and their thoughts. Was Galadriel _Intyalle_ as well? Aila looked now at Galadriel with fresh and interested eyes, but now the Elf did not look back at her, but smiled gently at the collected Company, whom she had just released from the ordeal of her gaze.

"Do not let your hearts be troubled," said Galadriel at last, and her gaze was placid again and did not penetrate. "Tonight you shall sleep in peace."

"Go now!" commanded Celeborn, rising from his seat to beckon the rest to stand. "You are worn with sorrow and much toil. Now you shall rest, and we will not speak of your further road for a while."

Aila rose and started to exit the grand hall, back to the descending stair, but could not resist a backward glance at the Lady Galadriel. She saw that the Elf again watched Aila cautiously from the corner of her eye.

Haldir led the Company again down the ladder stair of the great mallorn-tree. The travelers followed him swiftly, some glad to be out of the sight of Galadriel, and all were comforted by the beauty that surrounded them and the gentle elven singing that washed over them. Legolas' eyes were bright and upturned, and drank in the golden light of the leaves that fluttered above and around them as they descended. Though Aila would have liked to mimic his adoration, in the interest of not falling down the stairs she was forced to keep her eyes downcast to her feet and watch her progression down the steps. Though their climb had felt overlong, they swiftly found themselves alighted back on the mossy ground of the forest of Lothlórien.

In the large pavilion, the Elves had set up a group of couches for the Company to sleep on, set just aside the tinkling fountain and on the opposite side of the clearing of Galadriel's tree. Aila felt relief wash over her at the sight of the couches, looking forward to the feeling of cushions for the first time in too long, but she quickly counted and saw that there were only eight of the chaise-lounge couches. Before she could turn to Haldir and ask about it, a quiet voice called out to her, perhaps more within her consciousness than of sound-waves on the air,

"Aila-Aearvenel."

Her nostrils flared involuntarily at the compounding of her name, and she turned to find a slender elf-maiden waiting for her near the base of a nearby mallorn. The Elf was dressed in a pale gold dress that flowed to the ground for a foot behind her, and she was bare-footed. As Aila looked at her, the elf-maiden inclined her head in a reverent bow and said again:

"Aila-Aearvenel. _Im Calenethril_. _Gi nathlam hi_." At this, the elf-maiden turned, her dress twisting about her feet, and gestured to a mallorn-tree which dominated the space behind the couches. There also were Elves standing in grey mail at the foot of its stair, but these Elves had a strange symbol woven into the mail of their chests, and its shape was reminiscent of a bright star above the turning waves of the Sea. Calenethril, the elf-maiden, spoke once more as she gestured to the tree, "_Sen i var lîn_."

Aila did not understand what was being said to her, and so she didn't follow the elf-maiden when the Elf walked to the base of the tree she had gestured to. When she did not hear Aila follow, Calenethril turned again and waited demurely by the foot of the stair-ladder which led up into that tree. She watched with hooded eyes but did not say any more. Aragorn whispered in Aila's ear that she should follow the elf-maiden who beckoned her. "This is your Home," he said in a hushed voice.

Her first step forward, then, was out of surprise from the words that Aragorn spoke, and unsteadily she walked to follow the elf-maiden. Calenethril turned once more and began to ascend the steps. Aila, before her foot hit the first step, turned her head to glance back at the Company over her shoulder. She saw that Haldir had a hand placed above his heart, and he bowed to her with a peaceful look on his face. The two guards, also, had hands to their breasts and bowed to her. Legolas stood still, and the look on his face was unreadable, possibly the mask of many emotions. Her unsteady feet tripped a bit as she looked back, and recollecting herself, she paid attention to her feet as she climbed the stairway.

The House was built not nearly as high in the mallorn-tree as Galadriel's house, which Aila was thankful for as she was only a little out of breath. There was another enormous flet built around the silvery trunk of the tree, and a slender House stood there. Aila passed through the double-door entry of this House, which was slender and had a high, delicate archway, probably fifteen feet high. Inside, the House was opened to a single room, which was dominated by cushions and couches and large soft rugs. At the center of this room, against the shimmering trunk of the tree which rose in the middle of the House, was a white wooden chair, or perhaps more of a throne. It had a high back, which also rose some ten feet to a tapering point. Also against the trunk of the tree, and beside this grand white throne, sat another silver chair, also beautiful and elegant but smaller and less grand. The entire room was awash in the ethereal light of the silver lamps. The elf-maiden now waved that Aila should follow her and said, "_Aphado nin_." Aila quickly quit the grand room, still unsure of the two chairs, and followed the Elf down a hallway and into a small tiled room. There at the room's center was a large and elegant bathtub, white porcelain with golden clawed feet. Each foot had seven toes. To Aila's immediate pleasure, steam rose gently from the water within the bathtub, and so she walked eagerly towards the tub with only the thought of feeling the clean water against her putrid skin. The elf-maiden, which Aila now hardly noticed, put a hand to her heart and inclined her head again in a small bow, and left the room wordlessly.

After Calenethril had gone, Aila quickly pulled her tunic over her head, and peeled off her leggings – which were stuck to her skin with mud, sweat, and dirt. Off came her underthings and her socks, and she raised a leg to put herself into the steaming water of the bath. Though it was perhaps a little too hot, she couldn't resist the water's siren call and she plunged herself into the water anyway, relishing the heat on skin that had been consistently cold since she had left Rivendell. She immediately dunked her head under the water to wet her hair, but remained beneath the surface of the water for some moments extra, letting the hot water into the pores of her face and allowing her hair to float about her in a gossamer plume. A pumice-stone sat nearby, and she used it to scrub away months of grime and sweat and dead skin, rubbing her skin red with a sudden obsessive dedication to the task.

Too soon, the water was brown and cool, and Aila stood to leave the bath. A plush towel sat, previously unnoticed, on a nearby chair, and she took it up and toweled off. She wrapped the soft towel around her and looked sadly at the dirty mess of clothing she had piled on the floor, but she did not see anything else to put on. Even as she thought this, a delicate knock sounded against the door and Calenethril came in again with a plush robe and sleeping clothes, which felt to be made of a supple cotton. Aila put these on happily, enjoying the feeling of clean skin and clean clothing. Calenethril led her again through the hall of the House and, at the end of the hallway, led her through a large white set of double-doors.

The sight dominating the center of this room had the opposite effect of the bath, and gave her pause as she gazed at the huge bed, enormous and overwhelming in the center of the back wall, with luxurious golden covers and an intricately carved headboard showing beach scenes of Sea and Sky. Calenethril again put a hand to her heart and bowed as she left the room, but Aila did not approach the huge bed for a few moments. The enormous bed was impressive and daunting, and Aila thought that it was maybe the loneliest sight she had seen since departing Rivendell. The thought of sleeping in it that night, away from the rest of the Company, caused an odd rumbling in her chest. She thought then of going back down the stairway to the pavilion beneath to bring the Company up into her House – they could, after all, sleep as well on the couches in that grand hall as the ones on the ground – but her hands touched the soft bedclothes she wore and thought that she should change first. A bureau against a far wall gave her the only other garb she could find in the room: a long, golden dress – similar in style to the one which Calenethril had worn but with a darker golden hue and with more intricate needle-works woven around the belt and deep collar. Aila gratefully changed into this dress, which was soft and supple but had a beautiful sheen, and tied her wet hair into a quick braid to keep it from dripping on the dress. Thus changed, she walked quickly through the house again, keeping her eyes determinedly away from the great white chair in the grand room, and descended the stairs.

She was glad to see that the members of the Fellowship were still awake, and it seemed to her that they were finishing a discussion on how Galadriel's look had made them feel naked and exposed. Aila knew that each had faced a choice: a choice between a shadow full of fear and something that he greatly desired. And she was glad that she hadn't been present to hear their private conversation. When they noticed she had come down again, Merry quickly took the opportunity to change the subject of their speech, and, overtaken with a clever idea, Aila invited the hobbits to sleep that night in the huge bed of her House, as it was surely large enough even for eight hobbits. The thought of featherbeds and soft coverlets lit up Pippin's eyes, and the four hobbits barely had time to accept and thank her before they hurried up the stair to the promise of comfortable and heavenly slumber.

Aila then invited the Men, and Gimli and Legolas, to sleep on the couches which were in the room with that white chair, rather than sleeping outside. Aragorn responded that he did greatly desire to see her House, and following after the Ranger came Gimli and Boromir to the steps, but even before they gained the stairway, they noticed that Legolas did not come. Instead, he sat on one of the chaise lounges and put his back to Aila's tree and the rest of the Company. Aragorn saw this, and gave Aila a look which was full of import and meaning – though Aila did not understand what he could have meant, and the Ranger said loudly, "But tonight I shall sleep amidst the beauty of Lothlórien, here beneath the mallorn-trees and the stars. And may I sleep deep, and forget for a while my grief! I am weary in body and in heart." He nodded once to Aila, though again she did not understand his meaning, and he cast himself down upon one of the chaises. The Ranger had barely enough time to rest his sword, Andúril, upon the ground beside him before he fell asleep. Gimli and Boromir shrugged and swiftly followed suit, casting down their weapons and cloaks, and falling upon the soft cushions of the couches at the foot of her tree.

Aila thought about sinking down onto one of the remaining chaises and falling quickly to sleep, as a sudden drowsiness was overwhelming her at the sight of the three others sleeping soundly, but she saw still that Legolas sat up with his back to her. She walked over and sat beside him on his chaise, but he kept his eyes riveted on the movement of the fountain in front of them. Its sound was musical and enchanting, and it threw ephemeral lights upon his white skin and they danced like the empyreal glittering of stars.

"Legolas?" she began meekly, and the voice that came from her lips was a sheep's voice, and timid, which she did not like at all but her immediate discomfort kept her from trying again to speak. Thankfully, her voice had roused the Elf beside her slightly, though only to gently shake his head as he continued to gaze at the fountain.

"It is against our laws for any male-Elf to enter the House of Aearvenel until She chooses an Elf as her Match."

"Oh," she said simply, her lips forming a perfect circle and she held this expression for a few moments as she tried to think through the puddle of confusion that sat in her head.

Though this answered Aila's immediate question, it did not explain his distant behavior since they had come to Lothlórien, so she still waited though he didn't continue to speak. She continued to watch the dancing light the fountain threw against his face until he turned his head to return her gaze, and Aila immediately thought about how his eyes were a deep, rich blue, rather than the translucent ice of Haldir's gaze. The soft light of the twilit night was beautiful against his features and his blonde hair seemed to shine of its own intrinsic light, and the radiance thrown by the water glittered against his blue eyes. Aila couldn't say anything as she looked at him, awe-struck by his handsome features and the charm of the light against his skin and the glitter in his eyes. He looked back with a similar expression, and raised a wordless hand to her neck where he removed the cord which tied her hair in its braid. He pulled her wet hair around her shoulders, and damp strands hung against the side of her face and sat, thick and wavy, on her shoulders.

There was something right then, in that moment, that Aila, for all of her education, could not describe or put into words: a spell which pulled Aila to Legolas as though by gravity. Her head felt heavy and thick, though it was devoid of all fully-formed thought, and she leaned forward clumsily. She felt like an awkward and inexperienced middle-schooler trying to get her first kiss as her face came closer to his. Now that the motion had begun, she couldn't stop, and moved to press her lips against his.

Legolas lurched backward, quickly leaving the chaise and jumping to his feet. She couldn't exactly read the expression on his face, and she looked at him with a terrified expression for a few moments until her thoughts caught up with her. The Elf was unmoving where he stood, and Aila thought she saw in his face something like surprise and discomfort and regret. She wondered for a moment what her own face looked like – red with embarrassment she supposed – and she muttered a few incoherent words about the light and the music of the fountain, and she tried to apologize with broken sentences. Legolas still did not move, but still watched her with a constantly changing expression of varying emotions. At last, Aila remembered herself and stood up, unable now to look at the Elf, and she ran back up the stairs to her House, her sanctuary, and left Legolas behind.

. . .

_Gîl síla erin lû e-govaded 'wîn._= A star shines on the our of our meeting

_Gi nathlam hi_ = You are welcome here

_Im Calenethril_ = I am Calenthril (name)

_Sen i var lîn_ = This is your home.

_Aphado nin_ = Follow me.


	19. Deified

Author's Note: Thank you so much for your patience and support! I'm sorry for the week-long breaks between updates: I'm still getting settled into my new job and it has me quite busy – can you believe that I had to go into work today, on a Sunday? My goal is to update two chapters a week, so hopefully I'll be able to get on that pace soon. In the meantime, enjoy this newest lengthy chapter. (I think it's a good one.)

. . .

Ch. 19 Deified

Foggy and imprecise, voices floated into Aila's consciousness: an indistinct melody of gentle intonation, breathlessness, and a blurry overlapping of many vowels. Aila felt sunken and comfortable, deep in the cushion of her bed and wrapped in warmth and softness. Duke's sharp paws pressed insistently into her upper arm, probing her awake. Sunlight streamed, a bright pink glow, through her closed eyelids and she smiled a small smile, faintly groaning, and raised a hand to push Duke's paws from her shoulder. But her fingers met instead with a long, soft hand, and not a furry paw. Memory crashed down on her happy morning: Duke was not in Lothlórien, and instead a pair of Elven hands were gently, but insistently, prodding her awake. Her eyelids flew open, a movement she immediately regretted as bright white light flooded into her eyes and overwhelmed her dilated pupils. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the light and her eyes reduced to a bleary squint as she tried to find the Elf in the bright glare.

"'_Echuio_," a feminine voice said softly, matching the rhythm of its syllables to the caresses of the fingers. "Awaken, Aila-Aearvenel."

Aila sat up quickly on the couch, balling her hands into fists and rubbing them inexpertly, like a child, against her eyes, trying to rub away her sleepiness and the headache which thrummed dimly in her forehead. The headache was a remnant, she realized, of the tears which had fallen the previous night. She thought of Legolas, the memory a sharp knife within her brain, but quickly forced her thoughts away from him, and opened her eyes again to look at the Elf who had spoken to her. She squinted now up at the elf-maiden who had addressed her, and saw that behind that Elf stood three more: they stood, tall and lithe, each dressed in pale gold though in differently styled dresses, and each gazed at her with pale blue eyes and questioning expressions. Aila recognized Calenethril – or rather, there were two Calenethrils standing at the back of the small group, each a mirror image of the Elf she stood beside. Aila closed her eyes tightly against this image, keeping them shut against the light for the breath of several seconds, but she opened her eyes again to the Elf immediately in front of her, who spoke again.

"_No vaer i aur_."

"Who are you?" was Aila's indelicate response. It was, however, the best question she could manage while her thoughts swept quickly through her mind, desperate to reconstruct the morning and understand the purpose of the Elves who now stood before her.

"I am Isgwen, Aila-Aearvenel," she obliged, "and these are my Sisters." The Elf gestured to the tall blonde female who stood beside her, and the two behind, and respectively named them: "Galhedil, Calenethril, and Calathedil."

Aila's eyes lingered for a few moments again on the two twins who stood behind Isgwen, but her thoughts were beginning to catch up with the happenings and she turned to the first Elf, regarding her with a dubious expression before she spoke again.

"You speak English?" The question came warily, as though Aila thought she were dreaming or mishearing the Elf. She had certainly not become accustomed to Lórien-elves speaking in a language which she could understand.

"I have learned the Common Tongue," Isgwen responded, with an acquiescent nod of her head. "We have never known in what form or race that you would come, and so those who have been dedicated to your service, who have joined our sisterhood, have managed to learn what languages we could in order to prepare for your arrival, whomever you might be. Calethedil," and she gestured again to Calenethril's twin, "speaks the Rohirric tongue, lest you be a maiden of the Rohirrim; and another of our sisters even speaks Valarin, should you have come out of the West.

"But here you are now, and of the Men who speak the Westron tongue: I, then, am your ambassador here in Lothlórien." Here Isgwen paused for a moment, and regarded Aila with a critical eye. She leaned her head forward an inch and gave a delicate sniff, the result of which wrinkled the bridge of her nose. "But first, I think, you should require another bath. We shall make you ready for your presentation tonight; there will be a grand feast tonight for your welcome."

At this, the four Elves reached forward and bodily pulled Aila up from the couch, the wrinkled dress trailing behind her, which Aila had fallen asleep in on a couch in the grand hall of her House. Aila followed them, or more precisely was pulled along, out of the grand hall and through the main hallway, again to the washroom where that glorious bathtub had sat the previous day. The four Elves ushered her into this room again, and hot water was drawn and brought to fill the porcelain tub. The water steamed gloriously and in an inviting manner again, its siren call rang in Aila's ears. Having a bath, two days in a row, was overwhelmingly luxurious to her.

And though she expected the four Elves to leave the room again to afford her some privacy, she was surprised when only three quit the room: Isgwen remained. The two stared at each other now, Aila frozen with uncertainty and Isgwen waiting, an impatient look on her face. Aila raised her eyebrows, giving Isgwen a look that spoke of the expectation that the Elf would leave, but the Elf smiled gently and said firmly,

"Lady Aila, please make haste. We do not have much time and I must be certain that you are properly clean. Your time in the Wild has not left you with an appealing scent!" At this, Aila automatically lifted a hand to the nape of her neck, and an indignant look flashed over her face, but just as quickly, she dropped her arms to cross them over her chest in a defensive manner, as though to insist on the coverage of her body. Isgwen again looked at her impatiently, and walked forward to begin to untie the belt around Aila's waist. Aila uncrossed her arms and tried to defend her clothing from the grasping hands of the Elf.

"I think I can bathe myself!" she cried.

Isgwen stopped her movement and looked again at Aila, reading the uncomfortable expression in her face, and the Elf smiled again, generously and warmly. She only spoke then to say that Aila did not need to be uncomfortable, and lifted her hands to untie the band which held Aila's hair in its broad plait, and she intertwined her thin fingers in Aila's dark hair, pulling the twisted sections loose so that Aila's hair hung free again on her shoulders. The feeling forced Aila's eyes closed and reminded her of the night previous, when Legolas' hands had caressed her hair in a similar manner, and she smiled involuntarily as she recalled the feeling ... but her eyes flew open again and she tried to ignore that particular thought, banishing the memory and turned her attention again to the steaming bathtub. She quickly removed her dress and stepped into the heated water, as though swiftness would keep the Elf's eyes from seeing her naked body. There were no bubbles, but as soon as the water covered her and the heat sunk through her skin and into her tense muscles, she no longer cared that Isgwen remained in the room.

The Elf lifted the pumice-stone and used it to gently scrub Aila's back, and Aila thought that the experience was actually rather enjoyable and comfortable, so she closed her eyes and indulged in the warm water and the soft scrubbing on her skin.

"Who are you?" she asked at length, keeping her eyes closed. Isgwen seemed to understand that her question, though tactless, was more intricate in meaning than it sounded, and responded appropriately.

"I am one of the Sisters of Aearvenel, the _Galthellim,_" this last word she spoke was beautiful and rhythmic, and drawn out breathlessly in the manner of the Sindarin accent. Isgwen continued in explanation: "As children, we choose our paths, and for elf-maidens in Lothlórien, we may choose to be among the Sisters who wait and prepare for the arrival of our Light Bearer. We have kept this House for you, and remained ready for your arrival. And now that you are arrived, we are compelled now to serve you, in whatever manner you should require us." Aila wondered that there had been a caste of Elves who had remained prepared for her, keeping an empty House and waiting on a legend.

"There are four of you dedicated to me?" Aila asked doubtfully, now opening her eyes and turning her head to look at Isgwen. The idea that these individuals should choose to serve her ... Aila, who was so insignificant and human ... was an incommunicable and impossible oddity. The Elf paused in her scrubbing and gazed back at Aila, her delicate yellow eyebrows knit together in wondering thoughtfulness. Her expression was serene. Isgwen then shook her head slowly and turned her attention back to her task, moving her pale blue eyes away from Aila's gaze.

"There are twenty-three Sisters of the _Galthellim_."

Indescribable. Aila was frozen and lost for words at this revelation, but after a few moments she had recovered enough to ask more questions of Isgwen. The Elf obliged her as she washed Aila's skin and lathered soap into her hair, explaining the nature of the Galthellim, their charge in Lórien, and what it meant for Aila. She learned that the Sisters had chosen their path upon reaching maturity, and joined the Sisterhood of Elves who awaited their Aearvenel. Over their centuries of waiting, they had built her House and constructed much of Aearvenel-lore, defining rituals and proper courtship. To Aila, it seemed that an entire religion had been constructed surrounding the Light Bearer legend. The thought made her uncomfortable, but Isgwen continued to scrub at her skin in a repetitive, cadenced manner, and the feeling was calming.

"You will be presented today to Elvendom. It marks you officially as Aearvenel, _Colcalmë_. After the feast, Elves may begin to present you with the white amaryllis, which marks their availability to you to choose as a Match." This prospect did not excite Aila.

"But I have already received an amaryllis." Aila thought of Glorfindel and recognized a dull ache deep in her heart. She realized then that she had been secretly hoping that Glorfindel, and Duke, would beat her to Lothlórien and would be waiting for her there upon her arrival. She felt empty and lonely realizing that they weren't there, and she moved to sink a bit deeper into the water.

"In Imladris, yes," Isgwen replied, and poured water over her hair to wash out the soap. The cascading water over her face forced Aila to close her eyes and keep her lips pressed tightly together. "It is different in Lórien. Here there are the _Galthellim_, and we have rules."

Aila was allowed now to leave the bathtub and was wrapped in a large, soft white towel. The sweet smell of the soap greeted her nose and she had to admit that the smell was a big improvement on the sweaty mustiness that had enveloped her for the previous months in the wilderness. She did not get much more of a chance to talk to Isgwen because the other three elf-maidens came back into the room, and they all began to speak to one another in rapid, breathless Sindarin. Isgwen appeared to be the one in charge of the others, and directed them as they dressed Aila, drying her wet hair with another small, soft towel, and producing a long silver dress with intricate beading on the cuffs and across the deep neckline.

They fussed over her for some time, and Aila saw that Calenethril and Calathedil constantly whispered in one another's ears and giggled, like two close confidantes, though she couldn't understand what was being said even if she could hear it. Isgwen took the measure to spray her with a strong, flowery perfume, and looked at her pointedly with a meaningful expression. Aila smiled back, her eyebrows raised, as though at some private joke. The Elf returned her warm smile. After a time, when her Elf handmaidens seemed satisfied with her appearance, they led her again down the hallway to the bedroom, where there was a large full mirror built into the wall, which reflected the corner of the enormous bed which dominated the space. The bed's golden coverlet was drawn tightly and the hobbits were nowhere to be seen. Aila imagined that they had been ushered out that morning and were now out among the trees of Lothlórien. After a silent breath, to steel herself against the oncoming image, Aila stepped before the mirror.

The sight now that greeted her was startling, and it took a few moments for Aila to recognize herself. It was not only that she looked very nice and attractive: her skin gleaming and white, and her hair was clean and shone prettily, wrapped up in a loose bun at the base of her skull, some tendrils of hair hanging to frame her face in a natural, messy, appealing way. But rather, it was quite another thing which led Aila to ask, involuntarily and breathlessly, "This is me?" Her months trekking through the wilds had shrunken her figure, sapping away excess weight wherever it had been found, and it was most notable in her face and around her waist, which had always been otherwise slim anyway. Aila thought her lips looked fuller and more pronounced against the sharp line of her triangular jaw, and though her cheeks were still plump, they quickly hollowed out around her mouth to further emphasize her full lips. The consequence of this was surprisingly appealing, though Aila thought the emphatic change bordered on grotesque. And her waist was slimmer, though her hips still were wide. The dress further emphasized her waist, clinging around her stomach, and flowed out in an A-line from her broad hips, trailing along the ground behind her, and the overall effect was shocking.

Isgwen smiled as Aila looked at herself. "The evening is drawing closer. We must go now to the House of Celeborn and Galadriel, where they will host a feast in your honor. Come, we must collect your friends, as they are also honored guests."

Aila was given silver shoes, which reminded her of the song of Nimrodel which Legolas had sung, and they led her down the ladder to the pavilion below. At the couches which had been set up for them, the members of the Company lounged, and when Aila appeared from the stairway and walked to them, they all stood up in astonishment. Pippin and Merry looked at her with surprised expressions, and Frodo smiled broadly, and Boromir gazed at her with an odd expression settled on his brow. Aragorn put a hand to his breast and bowed low before her. He offered her his arm as her escort, which she gladly took. He looked like he had also had a chance to bathe, and his cleaned hair hung soft and wavy around his face, and he looked strikingly tall and handsome.

And though Aila could not look at him, Legolas stood silently, his jaw set tight and his blue eyes smoldering. He also tried not to look at her, the confusion of the previous night too near, but the way the dress hung, and the way her hair shone in the late afternoon sunlight that streamed through the trees, he could not help himself but to enjoy her appearance.

They walked together then, with Isgwen and the other Elves, to the large tree on the opposite side of the clearing, and began to climb up the familiar steps to Galadriel's house. Aila's grip on Aragorn's arm tightened as they neared the top, and he tried to smile at her in a comforting way, but it did not settle the nerves and uncertainty she felt. She could not get over the awkward and uncomfortable feeling that sat in her chest. Gimli grunted up the steps beside her as well, keeping close to Aila and Aragorn, and he, though in good humor, cursed the steps of the Galadhrim as they climbed. His presence did lighten Aila's heart a little bit.

She walked through the large doors then to Galadriel's grand hall, with Aragorn and Gimli flanking her, and saw that the hall was filled with tables. The collected Elves all stood and turned to face her, and some brought their hands to their hearts and smiled at her. She saw Galadriel standing beside Celeborn, at a long table set at the head of the room. Suddenly, Celeborn's voice rang out, smooth and deep, and he spoke for a few minutes in slow, purposeful Sindarin, and though Aila could not understand the majority of his speech, she did hear her name and the name Aearvenel, and this newest name: _Colcalmë_. Aragorn stayed with Aila, and the rest of the Company, where they stood just inside the doorway to the great hall. The Elves all faced them and watched with smiles and upturned faces as Celeborn continued to speak. The elf-lord finished with a loud, "_Tolo, mado, a hogo e-mereth_!_" _And at this phrase, Aragorn pulled Aila forward again to the long table to join to the two elf-royals, where seats were empty and waiting for them. As she walked forward through the maze of tables and Elves, many reached out to touch her reverently, and some touched Aragorn as well, and Gimli, and the others members of the Company as they passed following after her. At length, they came to the head table and sat according to Isgwen's gesturing: Aragorn to Galadriel's left, and Aila beside him, and Gimli to her other side, and Legolas beyond him. Frodo and Sam, sat to the right of Celeborn, and Boromir, and beside them Merry and Pippin.

Aila spent much of the feast talking to Aragorn, and avoiding the constant gaze of Galadriel, who still looked at her with the wary expression she had had the day before. Gimli also spoke to her increasingly, and Aila realized that it was the most the Dwarf had spoken to her in the entirety of their acquaintance. She had the distinct feeling that her blindfold stunt had endeared him to her. She appreciated his friendship, and found that she greatly enjoyed his crude humor and easy attitude. Aila also noticed that Legolas' eyes were frequently turned on her from the other side of the Dwarf, and she tried, determinedly, to keep herself from meeting his gaze.

After they had eaten, Aila followed the Elves wordlessly into another grand room, but which was lined with couches and strewn with plush carpets, and a host of Elves began to sing at its center, and the entire collection lounged, holding quiet conversations and enjoying the music. Aila realized then how quickly the day had passed; the sky was already dark outside beneath the canopy of the mallorn-trees, and the silver lamps hanging from the tree boughs were the only dim lighting over the crowd in the hall. She tried to keep herself hidden amongst the members of the Company, fearing again the attentions of the Elves, and the hobbits and Men obliged her, serving as living shields. Gimli seemed to take satisfaction in thwarting the approaching Elves from getting too near to her and it made her appreciate their newfound friendship even more. The Dwarf gave her a cheeky wink.

The singing of the Elves changed tone now to a slow and mournful song, and its melody struck a painful chord in Aila's chest though she couldn't immediately understand why. The words were long and beatifically drawn out and the Elven voices were quiet and sorrowful: a requiem of low voices and overlapping harmony.

_In gwidh ristennin, i fae narchannen  
I Lach Anor ed ardhon gwannen  
Mithrandir, A Randir Vithren!_

This last line, Aila realized, she understood: _Mithrandir, O Pilgrim Grey_! Each word was a stinging arrow to her heart now, and the sorrowful voices drew out the pain she felt deep within her. The melody of the lament had a haunting beauty in it, and it recalled immediately to her mind the slow drumming in the deep that had stalked them, to their loss, in Moria. As she thought of Gandalf, tears flowed readily to her cheeks, alighting on her cheeks and dripping down off of her chin, and she unabashedly wiped away the tears as they fell, unafraid to show her sadness.

_Ú-reniathach  
i amar galen  
I reniad lín ne môr, nuithannen  
lfirin nairelma_

_Nauva i nauva  
Ilfirin nairelma  
ar ullume nucuvalme  
Nuava i nauva_

During the song, she heard Sam, who stood near to her, ask Legolas what the song meant. The Elf did not look at the hobbit when he responded, but kept his eyes riveted on the host of Elves who sang the dirge. "It is a lament for Gandalf," he said quietly, his deep blue eyes glistening and glassy. He refused to translate the song for Sam, however, stating only, "For me, the grief is still too near. A matter for tears rather than song." She looked at him now, as he gazed, entranced, into the crowd of lamenting Elves, and her heart broke to see his grief. And as she gazed at him, he turned his head to look at her, and their eyes locked, deep blue and light brown, and they could neither of them look away. They stood, frozen, for several seconds, before Aila saw that Legolas began to move towards her. This movement broke the spell, and she turned quickly to escape him, extricating herself through the collected Elves and fleeing the house out onto the flet and the cool, refreshing night air.

As she took a deep breath, inhaling the cool, sweet evening air, Aila saw Haldir, standing tall with his back to her near the edge of the _talan_, his hands clasped loosely behind him as he gazed out into the fluttering leaves of the forest of Lórien. When he heard her approaching, he turned and smiled, and clasped her hand in both of his, as was the custom of Elves. Aila returned his warm smile, and stole a momentary glance back at the house. She saw that Legolas stood uncertainly in the doorway, framed by the warm golden light that spilled from the interior. Legolas stood frozen for a few moments, casting a striking dark figure, but then turned and walked back into the party.

"Haldir," she smiled, and realized she was very glad to see him – not the least because his presence had just saved her from what would have been an awkward conversation with Legolas, which she wanted to avoid at all costs.

He smiled handsomely in return, a broad smile which flashed white teeth and was perfectly framed by his broad jaw-line and long, straight nose. "I am glad that I had the chance to see you again, Aila. I will soon return to the northern fences, but was allowed to stay this night for the feast." He gestured to the descending ladder, wordlessly inviting Aila to take a walk with him, which she gladly accepted. Together, they descended the stair and walked into the pavilion, and then beyond the small clearing to the trees beyond. They followed a narrow, winding path through the great mallorn-trees, and Aila, trusting Haldir's confidant step, followed him deep into the Wood.

"Alas!" he cried after some time, "that you come to us now in the winter, when the leaves are golden on the bough. _Echuir_ is a merry time in Lothlórien – when the leaves are bright green upon the silver _mellyrn_ and the branches are heavy with yellow blossoms, and the golden leaves fall to cushion your feet as a fair carpet beneath your tread. All is awash in greens and yellows and muted golds, and the rich brown of Lothlórien soil!" He sighed a heavy sigh, and paused for a moment. "You will be here to see it, after all: spring is not many weeks off now and Lothlórien is now your home, though it would have been glorious had you arrived in the spring."

"I can only imagine," Aila smiled, turning to face the Elf where they had paused near a particularly broad mallorn-trunk. Its silver bark glistened in the pale light, ephemeral starlight that still seemed to glitter through the heavy cover of the leaf-laden trees. The dark night sky was high above them and inaccessible beyond the reach of those mighty mallorn-trees. "I have been to some beautiful places in my life," she said thoughtfully, drawing the cool air deep into her lungs between thought fragments. "I have traveled a little, and seen the quaint rural greenery of Sweden, sandy Hawaiian beaches, old-world Budapest, peaceful cherry blossoms in Sendai ..." Each of these brought sweet memories and the recollection of sprawling, beautiful vistas, but there was a hollowness to each of these memories: the thought that these places existed beyond the mirror, in another realm that pulsed faintly in her thoughts like distant memory. "But none of them compare to Lothlórien – it is beyond anything that I have ever seen or imagined, and you say that it is only winter! There is ..." and she struggled to find the words to express the evanescent feeling that she couldn't quite capture. " ... Something on the air: a melody, a humming that is just below hearing." Even as she said it, Haldir smiled at her with a knowing expression, and he lightly nodded his head. She wondered briefly if he could hear the song of Lothlórien that was just beyond the reach of her fingertips. "It's beyond my senses, but there's ... a vibration in my ear-drums or ... Or, a thrumming in my chest," and she lifted a hand to place a palm against her beating heart. She realized then that her heart was beating swiftly and that she felt out of breath with the thought of describing the ineffable song and beauty of the Golden Wood. Aila paused to catch her breath, which was coming in quiet, labored gasps, and she wet her bottom lip as she looked back at Haldir.

Suddenly, a recognizable feeling fell over her, and her eyes were locked on the face of the Elf who stood before her. It was dark in the woods beyond the glow of the silver lamps, but the bright starlight still shone down in places, and here the celestial light flashed across Haldir's face, highlighting the sensuous curve of his lower lip, the sharp line of his strong jaw, and the tender curve of his ears. He stood more than a head taller than her, and when she tried to tear her eyes away from his face, was met only with the broad expanse of his shoulders, and the gentle motion of his chest as he breathed softly.

"Aila?"

She looked back to his face when he said her name, locking again into those pale blue eyes, rimmed with dark grey, and flecked with deep pools of cool sapphire. He lifted a hand to her cheek, cupping her jaw easily in his long hand so that his fingertips just barely curled around the lobe of her ear, and held his hand there for a few seconds, returning her gaze with an expression of curiosity and uncertainty in his translucent eyes. At his touch, however, Aila's eyes automatically closed, in order to indulge in the feeling of his soft hand against her cheek, but also to restrain herself from leaning forward toward him, as she had done the previous night. Too soon, his hand dropped again, and the cool air rushed in to chill the skin where his warm hand had been. Aila opened her eyes again, and saw that Haldir now held in his hand, proffered to her, a white amaryllis blossom, sitting delicately in his palm and protected by elegantly curled fingers. He said quietly, "It would be an honor."

Aila blushed, thanked him, and plucked the blossom from his palm. As she did so, he placed a palm to his breast and inclined his head in a slight bow. Haldir walked her, then, back to the pavilion where the members of the Fellowship were collected again around the couches. The evening had passed, it seemed, and the feast had ended.

"I leave in the morning for the northern fences," Haldir told her as they neared the Company. "But I shall return to see Frodo and his companions off on their journey, and I shall see you again at that time. _Ir i lû tôl__." _He turned and disappeared in the trees.

As she approached the collected couches where the Company sat, Aragorn quickly saw her and addressed her, a laughing smile in his dark eyes: "The Shire-folk have already taken over your bed, I think. Pippin has accepted a continuously open invitation." Aila smiled broadly at the Ranger and let him know that she didn't mind at all, and sat, with a pleased sigh, on an open couch. She held the amaryllis blossom in the palm of her hand and traced her fingers tenderly over the contours of its petals.

"That is a pretty thing," Gimli said, in his deep, gruff voice. He was lying on a couch near to her, with his hands thrust up beneath his head, and his beard slung to one side over his broad chest. His eyes looked nonchalantly at the white flower, because he did not understand what it meant.

"Thank you," Aila smiled, aware that Legolas stood just beyond the Dwarf, listening. And then she said, much louder than she needed: "Haldir gave it to me." Unable to contain her curiosity, she stole a quick glance to Legolas, and saw a dark expression on his face as he, also, looked at the white flower in her hand. Then Aila laid down on the couch, and quickly turned onto her side so that her back was to the Elf, and she laid the pale blossom on the cushion in front of her chest, and looked at it absently in the silver light of Lothlórien.

. . .

'_Echuio_ = Awaken

_No vaer i aur_ = Good morning

_Colcalmë_ = (literally) Light Bearer

Tolo, mado, a hogo e-mereth_ = Come, eat, and drink of the feast_

_Echuir_ =Early Spring

Ir i lû tôl_ = Until then_


	20. Intro to Cognitive Science

Author's Note: Sorry for the delayed posting, I had meant to get this up over the weekend. Had I planned these updates better, I would have made sure to have a much juicier chapter up on Valentine's Day. Perhaps you will find this chapter juicy in quite an unexpected way. Regardless, consider this my Valentine's gift to each and every one of you!

. . .

Ch. 20 Intro to Cognitive Science

Her feet fell heavily upon each step as she climbed the stair, ascending into her House in the cool morning air. It was late morning, the sun rising high in the blue sky beyond the reaching leaves of the mallorn-trees, and its rays sought restlessly through the maze of leaves, reaching with warm fingers to the loamy floor of the forest of Lórien. Aila found that the House was entirely empty, as the hobbits had already descended to breakfast with the rest of the Company, and this afforded her the first opportunity to explore her own home. She passed quickly, then, through the grand room which was overwhelmed by those two puzzling, exquisite chairs, and turned instead into the main hallway. To the right, she knew, was the washroom where she had bathed, and at the end of the hall, behind tall double-doors, lay her bedroom and the enormous golden bed which she had nightly filled with hobbits rather than herself.

On the left, there stood a closed door, framed with intricate wood carvings and painted with a silver hue to match the silver bark of the mallorn. Aila pushed this door open lightly, and it swung easily on its hinges, floating on air rather than hanging against the frame, and afforded her access to a wide room beyond. At first, Aila could only see the large window which dominated the back wall, allowing bright sunlight to spill into the room, its shudders flung wide open and she saw fluttering golden leaves within reach beyond its wooden sill. She took a few slow steps into the room, her footsteps softened by a thick dark crimson rug which lay over the floor, wall to wall. The room looked to be a library, with bookcase-like shelves lining the available wall space. Maps of Lothlórien, and more of Middle-earth beyond, hung on the walls, old and faded. But all of these shelves sat empty, forlorn and morose, even in the bright room. And a large desk sat in the middle of the space: light, shining wood, sitting atop spindly legs, a matching chair tucked neatly underneath. Aila placed the amaryllis flower which Haldir had given her on the writing surface of the desk, placing it delicately on the glossy surface, and arranging it carefully so that it sat gracefully and attractively. She absently ran her fingers along the smooth face of the desk as she walked toward the window, entranced by the sunlight that streamed through the window, bright yellow rays visible through the canopy of leaves. Just in front of the window, as though placed for the enjoyment of looking out of the window, sat a long, over-stuffed couch, with a high back and thick, plush cushions. Aila ignored this and stood directly in front of the window, wrapping her fingers around the exterior of the window-sill and leaning out toward the sunlight, finding a spot where a beam of light could wash over her face. She closed her eyes against the light and smiled idly, relishing the warmth and the soft pink light through her eyelids.

"Aila-Aearvenel?"

Aila closed her eyes tightly, as though ignoring the voice behind her would make the Elf go away, but the voice came again, insistently, and Aila knew that Isgwen had walked farther into the room. She uncurled her fingers from the window sill, slowly opened her eyes, and turned to find that there were now six Elves looking at her curiously, peeking through the doorway with puzzled and interested expressions. Isgwen waved her hand impatiently, gesturing that Aila should come back to the hallway to join her.

"There is much to be done today!" the elf-maiden cried, hastening forward to lay an insistent hand on Aila's upper arm. "Now that you have been presented, you must be made available in public so that you may begin to receive the white amaryllis blossoms – though I see," the Elf said with a pointed look at the desktop, "that you have already begun to receive this token."

Aila felt immediately embarrassed and red-faced at the implicative way that Isgwen looked between the flower on the desk and herself, and the prospect of further social awkwardness and embarrassment at the reception of innumerable white flowers – which had been suggested even by Arwen and was now reinforced by Isgwen – did not placate the immediate desire that rose up in her chest to avoid any such experience.

"Wait," cried Aila, throwing up her palms as though to fend off the Elves, and Isgwen paused. "This is ridiculous! You are all sworn to assist and serve _me_, correct?" Isgwen responded in the affirmative, and several of the Elves beyond the doorway nodded adamantly. "Then stop pulling me about like an incompetent rag-doll!" Aila said, frustration and embarrassment plain on her face. Isgwen's eyes narrowed with uncertainty, and regarded Aila with a wary expression. "I'm fairly competent, anyway, as a sentient thing," Aila continued, and felt as though the words were plummeting from her lips, but as they came, she began to feel new power. "I don't need twenty-three of you to bathe me, and dress me, and parade me limply around Lothlórien so that a line of Elves can form to profess their undying Love for a stranger in the hopes that I will choose them!" Her words became stronger and more certain as she continued, and she realized how pleasing it felt to finally exert some control over her environment again – for the first time since she had arrived in Middle Earth. "Please, go back to your own lives, and behave as though I never came here. I don't know what you did before – but go back to that!"

A flurry of words flew up from the Elves, as the few who had understood her words began to translate for the others. An uproar of frenzied Sindarin quickly flew about the room, though Isgwen remained still and watched Aila intently – and Aila thought she saw the trace of a small smile playing across this Elf's lips.

Suddenly, Aila recollected herself, and amended: "Though ... I do need some things from all of you, which I beg that you will indulge me. First, I think I should begin learning Sindarin, since it will not do that I cannot speak the language that nearly all of you speak alone." Isgwen smiled then, and bowed slightly. Aila continued haltingly, the memories of the last two nights in Lothlórien were heavy in her mind still: "Also, I think that I should require a ... an escort. Of sorts. I have found that it, it isn't safe for me at all. At night. In Lórien. So perhaps you could take it in turns – one of you should be with me once nighttime begins to fall."

Isgwen turned and spoke to the collected Elves who surrounded the doorway, chattering unhappily, and she said, "_Boe i 'waeg; ego, ego_!" And slowly the collected Elves beyond the doorway began to turn and dissipate, descending down the stairs from the House and out into their beautiful city, Caras Galadhon. Isgwen turned again, faced Aila, and smiled softly, "_Mae garnen_. We are, of course, here to serve you. We have spent many centuries in our idle planning. We get ahead of ourselves." Again, she paused to smile. "But you are here now, and obviously have your own ideas. You are not, after all, a thing which has suddenly erupted into existence as _Aearvenel_."

"Right," echoed Aila, nodding but still looking uncertainly at the Elf, as though waiting for the other shoe to drop. The Elf, however, was perfectly submissive and pulled out the chair of the desk to sit down, and gestured that Aila should sit on the couch.

"I will, of course, instruct you in Sindarin, both spoken and in the writing of the tengwar letters, as far as I am able. We may find you a better teacher in time, if we must, but I will do for now. First, however, we must take note of the amaryllis blossoms which have been given to you. I see that you are not keen on receiving more," the Elf said, her astute eyes settled on Aila with a knowing expression, and a certain amount of friendly mischievousness sat just behind her azure eyes. "But I fear you may receive many and it will not do for us to be unsure of who has given a blossom to you." At this, the Elf slid open a small drawer in the desk, dexterously plucking out a pen and inkpot, and a thick, leather-bound book. Placing it upon the table, she opened this book to reveal blank pages. Isgwen dipped the tip of the pen in the ink and then held it poised over the first page, and looked expectantly at Aila.

It took Aila a few seconds to understand the meaning of the blank pages and the book, and when she did comprehend the use of the book, she did not like the thickness of its spine. "I received that flower last night from Haldir," she said quietly, and watched unhappily as Isgwen confirmed her fears: the Elf immediately put the pen to paper, and elegant script flowed in thick, shining ink from her delicate hand. Aila saw that she traced Haldir's name in graceful and sinuous tengwar letters. Aila frowned as she watched, and wondered at the number of pages. Did Isgwen expect to fill the thick pages of the book with the names of her suitors? It seemed an insurmountable number of names which would be required the fill the book – surely more names than there were Elves in Middle-earth. After completing the transcription, Isgwen looked up again to Aila, her eyebrows raised expectantly and her thin lips pursed together.

"And in Imladris?" the Elf prompted.

Aila leaned against the back of the couch, putting a hand up to her chin. "Glorfindel," she said quietly, glad, at least, that Isgwen was uninterested in being regaled with the stories of how each of these blossoms were obtained. Isgwen nodded and without a moment's hesitation began to write out Glorfindel's name in the official list of Aila's suitors. Aila thought briefly that Glorfindel's name should have topped the list, since he had been the first to offer her an amaryllis, but did not say anything.

"And?" the Elf asked, now not looking up from the pages, but rather she kept her eyes downcast, and the pen remained poised over the paper, hovering above the beginning of the third position, awaiting a third name. Aila paused.

"Only Glorfindel," she said quietly, looking earnestly at Isgwen. The Elf looked up with a sharp look of surprise, a look which compelled Aila to explain. "Glorfindel and I were ... close friends. Arwen said that many considered that I was quite fond of him and so did not give me a flower." Isgwen nodded in understanding again, and swiftly wrote something beside Glorfindel's name.

"I will make note, then, that you are close friends." It was Aila's turn now to lift her eyebrows in surprise. Isgwen explained, "Though it's important to take note of all who present you with the amaryllis blossom, you cannot be expected to choose a Match from strangers. When you consider your choice, then, you will choose from those you know well. Such a mark will separate your viable choices from the ones who are merely ceremonial."

This gave Aila pause once more, and she turned to look out the window again at the bright light streaming through the trees. It was surprisingly reasonable that Isgwen expected her to choose from among the Elves that she knew well, and did not expect her to randomly know, upon first sight, that a total stranger was her Match. It was not a level of rationality which Aila had expected – since everything else about Light Bearer lore seemed entirely fanciful and impractical. Quite the contrary to this fancy was Isgwen, whose businesslike demeanor and no-nonsense practicality began to endear Aila to her. But even as she thought about this, and how much she appreciated Isgwen in that moment, her memory flashed back again to another amaryllis which she had held in Rivendell.

"There was another," Aila said quickly, turning her head to look at the Elf again. "An amaryllis. I fell asleep in the great hall of fire during the singing and ... and I woke up to find a white flower blossom in my hand." Isgwen readied her pen again, suspended over the paper. "I don't know who gave it to me," Aila finished, and Isgwen looked disappointed. "I didn't know what it meant at the time."

Isgwen placed the pen down with a flourish and looked momentarily annoyed, though not at Aila. "Then he has wasted his effort," she said swiftly, and had a stern look on her face. "An Elf has only one chance to present you with an amaryllis, to present himself as a suitor," she said quickly when Aila prompted her. "Whoever gave that blossom to you cannot have a further chance to give you another, nor may he afterward claim to be the giver of such a token."

The thought made Aila quite sad.

. . .

A week, or maybe two, passed in Lórien. Aila continued to sleep on the couches, though she moved up into the grand hall of her House and slept there, where Boromir and Aragorn also slept, and sometimes Gimli, on couches placed across the room. Legolas did not sleep with the Company after the first two nights, and the hobbits continued to monopolize Aila's bedroom – which she was glad for. Legolas returned only to eat with the others in the pavilion below, and he increasingly took Gimli with him into the company of the Elves of Lórien, a personal escort to the Dwarf through the fair city.

Aila lounged now yet again on the couch in the study of her House, where she had found herself often since she had come to Lothlórien, gazing idly out of the large window while Isgwen sat at the desk and looked over Aila's latest attempt at Sindarin. Her written tengwar was sloppy and inelegant, but usually correct. Aila found that she had a knack for spoken Sindarin, the melodies of which reminded her very strongly of Swedish – though Sindarin were more breathless and elegant, and Swedish more exaggerated silliness, the melodies and rhythms were similar, though the effect was opposite. Even after only a week (or two?) Aila could hold rather juvenile conversation with Isgwen. Aila twirled her fingers in her hair, unthinkingly twisting the length of her hair as she gazed out into the trees of Caras Galadhon, thinking of Swedish and muttering to herself some phrases that she thought to remember. She had just recalled a favorite song, and sang aloud, though in a quiet voice, "_Allting __är borta, huset och linden__; __och mina vänner skingrats på vinden_ ..." when another elf-maiden rushed into the room, looking harried.

The Elf turned to Isgwen and spoke to her in rapid Sindarin, which was so fast and accented as to be beyond Aila's limited comprehension. She was not left out of the loop for long, however, as Isgwen turned quickly to her and said, "The Lady Galadriel requests that you attend her immediately."

Aila immediately thought that she had never heard a phrase more terrifying.

She had not seen Galadriel since the feast her second day in Lórien, and the Elf had certainly not been the most welcoming – Aila could only remember the wariness in Galadriel's eyes and the untrusting look that the Elf had constantly turned upon Aila. The idea that the Lady now requested Aila go to her was frightening.

"You must go," said Isgwen insistently, closing the book quickly which held Aila's attempts at Sindarin, as though reading the discomfort and fear on Aila's face. "Quickly."

Aila stood from her seat on the couch, straightening the skirt of her dress and smoothing down the soft fabric with the flats of her palms: a slow, soothing motion as she tried to calm the rapid beating of her startled heart. She exhaled slowly, trying to collect the thoughts which were flying rapidly about her head. Isgwen stood also, and nodded encouragingly, and physically led Aila from the study, placing gentle hands on her shoulders to guide her through the House to the descending stair. Isgwen did not descend with her, but rather stayed behind in the House, watching with a pensive expression, saying, "Go, Aila, go with Handwen." The elf-maiden, Handwen, now led Aila, waving with desperate hands to encourage the woman to hurry. But Aila could not hurry, and her feet felt leaden. She tried to convince herself that an audience with Galadriel could be perfectly innocent – she was, after all, the Light Bearer, and the Elf might have important things to say regarding that. In spite of this, all Aila could think about was the suspicious and guarded look of Galadriel's deep cerulean eyes.

Handwen led Aila to the edge of a small clearing, and to the top of a winding stairway that led down what seemed a steep hill. The Elf gestured that Aila should descend the stair, but did not make any move that she would follow Aila. Swallowing hard, and setting her jaw in resolution, Aila took the first few steps down the stair. She turned her head to see Handwen disappearing in the direction from which they had come.

Aila steeled herself mentally as she walked slowly down the stairway, clenching her fingers tightly into fists and gritting her molars. At the foot of the stair was a small clearing, only thirty feet in diameter, and a well, full to the brim with glittering water, dominated its center. Beyond this, watching Aila intently, stood the Lady Galadriel, and no other. The Lady gestured to a long stone bench which sat on the east side of the well, and Aila slowly walked to this bench and sat obediently, unable to take her eyes from the beautiful, tall Elf that stood before her. After watching Aila sit on the bench, the Lady Galadriel moved to join her; smooth, spectral motions that spoke of fluidity and grace.

"Do you know," the Elf began softly, as soon as she had alighted on the bench beside Aila – rather floated downward than sat – "why I have summoned you here?"

Aila did not know, and it was quite beyond her to guess, as fear had frozen her tongue, but the Elf waited patiently as though fully expecting an answer. Aila inhaled deeply, attempting to clear her mind and think of the best response. "I hope that you will tell me more about being the Light Bearer," she said after some moments consideration, deciding that it was best to steer the conversation away from anything which might bring a return of Galadriel's wary eye.

"Light Bearer?" the Lady Galadriel echoed, turning the phrase over in her mouth, a curious expression on her face, and her lips pressed together tightly, as though thoroughly tasting the words on her tongue. "You have many names. _Sælrieth_, the Wise; _Aearvenel_, of Sea and Sky; _Colcalmë_, literally Light Bearer, _one who bears the Light_, but this is not a proper translation. It misses, partially, something which is inherent in the title which you bear. For this, we have an even older name, which few remember: _Calarchol_." Galadriel rolled this word from the tip of her tongue, and to Aila it sounded uglier than the other names, but spoke of something deep and mysterious in its hardened consonants. "_One who bears the burden of the Light_. For the Light ... it is a burden, you see, just as one who bears a Ring of Power is burdened by it." She held her left hand out for Aila to see, and though Aila could not see the ring, she rather saw a bright star shining from between the Elf's long, thin fingers – and she knew that Galadriel was showing her _Nenya_, Ring of Water and Ring of Adamant. "You are burdened, Light Bearer," Galadriel said, and now her voice was low and soft and deep. Something deep within Aila felt comfortable and resonated with familiarity. "But you alone can bear this burden: you bear the Fate of my people. You _are_ the Fate of my people. What Fate has given you, She has also bestowed upon the Elves – and we shall survive or perish together."

Galadriel's voice was deep and soothing, though its effect on Aila's constitution was quite the opposite; even while it soothed her ears, it troubled her heart. Aila thought immediately that though this Elf was indescribably beautiful and elegant and serene, there was still something alien about her and something which was entirely inaccessible.

"There is also the small matter of your being _Intyalle_."

"Intyalle!" Aila cried, suddenly recalling the Elf-lady's piercing power. "But are you not also Intyalle, and can you teach me how to use this power?"

Galadriel leaned away, even as Aila leaned excitedly forward, and the Elf turned her head to gaze side-long as Aila, as though afraid to turn her full face on her. The wariness had returned to Galadriel's eye. "I am not _Intyalle_," said the Elf imperiously. Aila, disappointed and embarrassed by her sudden hopeful outburst, sat back again. "The power which I have is afforded me as the Keeper of a Ring of Power. I have access only to the thoughts of another, and I may speak to them through our thoughts. I cannot, however, wield the full Mind power of _Intyalle_ – I cannot change one's own thoughts, or cause pain or pleasure within one's mind. These Powers I do not have." Galadriel paused for the full length of a minute, and Aila waited, since it was obvious the Elf was on the cusp of speaking again. "Are you disappointed?" she asked at last.

Aila was startled by the question, uncertain. "I hoped," she began slowly, "that you could tell me more about this power that I have. I do not know how to wield it – or to restrain it." Galadriel nodded slowly at this last, and opened her palms before Aila, as though presenting her with an invisible gift.

"You have unrestrained access into another's Mind, Aila, Aearvenel. You can cause pain, incite fear, and send misleading thoughts to your enemies, but also protect and heal and relieve pain in your friends." Aila thought immediately of the taint she had removed from Frodo's mind, and Galadriel read her memory easily, her chilled blue eyes moving easily over Aila's face as she listened to her thoughts. "If you have already accessed these powers, you may know already a little of what I speak. You can walk freely into the halls of another's Mind, free to explore and to know deeply everything about that individual. You can remove the taint of evil, as you have done for the Ring-bearer, and relieve sorrow, as you have done also for the young Peregrin Took." Aila was surprised – she had not even remembered the incident until Galadriel mentioned it then. A small smile pulled at the corners of Galadriel's serene lips. "You possess in your mind an indeterminable number of servants, who you may send into other minds to conduct your business, and which we might call Mind Wraiths."

"Wraiths?" Aila asked quickly, the word turning unhappily on her tongue, and she thought immediately of the Nine that still wandered the Wild, in search of Frodo and his Ring.

"Spirits of your mind," Galadriel allowed, "and very much a living part of you. They allow you access to many minds, even at once." Neither of them spoke for a long while, and Aila stared at her hands, in lieu of gaping aghast at the Elf, and tried to turn over this new information in her mind. After a while, she looked up again at Galadriel, only to find that the Elf already was shaking her head. "I cannot teach you to wield these powers, since they are not within my purview. However, your talent is primarily the reason I asked you to attend me here tonight, as I wish to engage your particular skill in locating the wizard, Gandalf the Grey."

It was Aila's turn to look warily at Galadriel, and she quickly turned her head aside, in a weak attempt to shield her thoughts from the Elf. She wondered if her power as Intyalle could shield her mind from Galadriel as it worked to invade the minds of others. "Gandalf is dead," she said slowly, measuring her breaths and hoping that her voice did not betray her.

"We both know that Mithrandir cannot be destroyed." At this, Aila looked back to the Elf sharply, and then nodded slowly. "I wish for you to locate his mind, to seek him out, and verify the feelings in my heart that he is being re-made for this Middle-earth, and has not been returned to the halls of the Valar."

Galadriel offered her hand, fingers spread and palm up, to Aila, which the latter took slowly, wrapping her fingers within the long hand of the Elf. Aila knew instinctively that she would need Galadriel's help, and that since the Elf had already accessed Gandalf's mind, she would be supremely beneficial in locating the wizard, wherever he may be. Aila closed her eyes and thought of Gandalf, slowly shouldering all other distractions out of her mind: pushing aside the music of the fluttering leaves, and the gentle breathing of Galadriel beside her, and the moving melody of the nearby water. And she thought only of Gandalf, and his names began to fly quickly, in rotation, through her mind: Olórin, Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey, Tharkun, then ... Gandalf the White. Olórin, Mithrandir, Gandalf the Grey, ...

The darkness which enveloped her eyes was fading, she could no longer feel Galadriel's hand in hers, and Aila felt a draft of icy cold air against her face. Her eyes flew open to find that she stood now, quite alone, in a long, dark hallway. The walls and floor were both made of rough-cut stone, like the ruins of an old castle, and torches flickered lamely, almost burnt down to their nubs and giving little light. There was a sound of dripping water that echoed through the hall. Slowly, she began to perceive a whispering, or a distant chanting, which sounded through the halls, though barely perceptible and nearly beyond her range of hearing. She stood deathly still as she listened to the voice, a many-layered echo, which hummed within the stones and through the heavy, cold air. It sounded as though it were incanting in Latin, or an ancient language similar, and it did not have the same sinister quality that the voice in Frodo's mind had had: it was hauntingly familiar and ancient.

She took a few steps forward and her footsteps rang out, echoing through the hallway for unimaginable distance in each direction. The muttering ceased, and a chill silence fell, hanging on the heavy air, a tangible discomfort. As though in a horror movie, Aila felt a cold gust against her back, and she spun quickly around, raising her hands in front of her to defend herself from whatever was coming up from behind. And she froze, still holding her hands before her, but motionless and stunned.

Gandalf – grey and old and battered – stood before her.

He opened his mouth to speak to her, but though his lips moved, no sound came from his tight throat. Gandalf, however, did not seem to realize that his words were not coming to fruition as sound, and he nodded enthusiastically at Aila, insisting that she understand him. Wide-eyed and frozen still, Aila could not respond, but still only stared at the wizard in front of her. He was there, certainly, but he looked ghostly and ethereal; as though she could pass her hand through him, made of no substance at all, but mist and heavy air. Opening his mouth again to speak, this time a low and haunting creak escaped his throat, as an antique door would sound upon opening which had not been disturbed for centuries. The effect was ghostly and terrifying, and Aila quickly dropped her hands, and moved her tongue over her lips to wet her dry mouth.

"Gandalf," she rasped hoarsely, to curtail the movement of his lips and to end that appalling creaking noise that seeped from his throat. "Gandalf, please, where are we?"

The wizard gestured wildly for a few moments, his bright blue eyes wide and searching, and he reached beneath his robes and produced a long, glittering silver sword. Aila recognized it immediately: Glamdring. The sword shimmered in the pallid light, and Gandalf held it aloft between them. Again, he nodded vigorously and his dry, cracked lips worked ineffectually. Gandalf stepped toward her, though his steps were indistinct and it appeared to Aila that his form merely blurred until he was closer to her, and he lifted the haft of the sword and pressed the pommel into her hand. His touch was chilling, both in its freezing temperature and in the incorporeal feel of his fingers on hers, but she allowed him to press the sword into her hand and accepted its weight from him. The sword was heavier than she expected: even if Gandalf were not a material thing before her, the sword was certainly substantive. Once more, Gandalf nodded forcefully, flapping his hands toward her in a shooing gesture, and he turned around, hurrying away from her before disappearing entirely in the darkness of the hallway.

The weight of the sword in her hand was increasing, and the sword was tugging downward to the ground, as though intentionally pulling at Aila. Unwilling to release the sword, Aila closed her eyes again and tried to return to Lothlórien, where perhaps Galadriel would be able to interpret what she had seen in the dark stone hallway. The sword's weight tugged insistently, and she felt it drag her, struggling, to her knees. But instead of hard stone floor, her knees met instead with soft, loamy forest floor, and she knew immediately that she was back in Lórien.

When Aila opened her eyes again, relieved to see the soft green and gold hues of Lórien, she realized that she was on her knees in front of Galadriel, and the Elf was standing precariously near her, the familiar wariness returned to her aloof blue eyes. Aila couldn't understand why the distrust had returned to the Elf's face, until she looked at her hands and saw, still clutched in her white fingers, the sword of Gandalf. Glamdring.

"What does it mean?" Aila asked quietly, a question directed more to herself than to Galadriel, but she heard the Elf respond none-the-less.

"Gandalf means to return again to us, and he has sent his sword back to Middle-earth with you for keeping until he returns for it. You must keep this well for him! He shall need it soon enough!"

"Then we know he will return?" Aila looked up at the Elf, from where she still kneeled on the ground, her face turned innocently to the Lady of the Wood.

"We always knew," responded Galadriel enigmatically, and held her chin high, though she still looked at Aila intently.

. . .

_Boe i 'waeg_ = You should go

_Ego, ego_ = Go, go!

_Mae garnen_ = Well done

. . .

[Swedish] _Allting __är borta, huset och linden__; __och mina vänner skingrats på vinden _= Everything is gone, the houses and trees; and my friends are scattered to the wind (Song is "Lyckliga Gatan" by Cajsa-stina Åkerström)


	21. Arrogance

A Note From the Author: Did you know that you are looking very fancy today? (That's my way of distracting you from the fact that I haven't updated in far too long – forgive me, I had the flu?) Here's some news that I found incredibly exciting: TLB has been added to the Best Legolas Fanfictions community, so that's ... awesome! Thanks faithful readers!

Also, I've started updating my profile page with news on chapter postings – so if you're wondering when the next chapter is coming out, you should check there! I'll be able to keep the lines of communication more open on my profile than I can in the chapters of this story.

I hope you enjoy this chapter: it's been brewing in my head for some time now, and as such it took a while for me to get it out right, and this one was particular tough. It took a few tries for me to really get it right (again, maybe I should blame the flu). But ... here it is, cheers!

. . .

Ch. 21 Arrogance

Another week, or again maybe two, passed in Lothlórien. Though Aila had a distinct feeling that many days were passing, she couldn't quite recall or number the days which had passed or what she had done on any day in particular.

She was lying on her back on a mossy bank, her hands tucked underneath her head with her fingers interlaced in her thick hair. The small stream sang merrily in the background of her thought, its current pulling gently at her feet, which she had placed in the cool water. Though the water was exceptionally frigid, it felt nice against the rough soles of her feet and the gentle pulling of the current was soothing: pulling her away into unknown distance. Aila enjoyed also the feeling of clean hair again, working her fingers through soft locks of hair and against clean scalp; it was a luxury which she had done without, while in the wilds of Middle-earth, for too long.

Beside her lay an amaryllis blossom, lying careless and haphazard in the loam of the forest-floor. It was merely the latest in a long series of tokens. She hadn't been able to avoid the attentions of the Lórien-elves, and, after having only been a few days in their fair city, Aila began to be presented with an increasing amount of amaryllis flowers. To her astonishment, and great embarrassment, Elves had literally lined up to present her with the meaningful token, though most of these Elves she hardly knew. Each evening, she, with Isgwen, faithfully and diligently took inventory of their names and intents. But she didn't like to think about the amaryllis for too long – its presence in her fingers had been worrying and the interior of her lower lip had very nearly reached its limit, so Aila had set the flower down on the soft ground beside her, kicked off her light shoes and stretched out to place her feet in the cold water of the stream.

This was a place particularly special to her, which she had found about a half-hour's meandering walk from the heart of Caras Galadhon – into the trees of Lórien. Aila found herself there increasingly; it was a refuge to escape the Elves, as she did not suffer any of the sisters of the _Galthellim_ to come there with her, and so far no other Elves had bothered her in this spot.

And as she lie there on the soft forest floor, listening to the trickle of the water and relishing its soft touch on her skin, she gazed up absently into the golden boughs of the mallorn-trees and allowed her mind to wander.

She had certainly passed however many transient days she had been in Lórien: usually she spent her days studying Sindarin with Isgwen and her evenings in aimless strolls with one of her _Galthellim_ nightly escorts. Aila had also spent an increasing amount of time with the two Men of the Company, and their society was surprisingly pleasing to her. She dined and chatted with them, and they regaled her with stories of their kinfolk and the White City. But what Aila had liked most to hear were not their tales of epic battles or long-winded martial histories, half-forgotten; rather she lost herself in their descriptions of jubilant feasts, of light-hearted music and dancing, and drunken merry-makers, and most of all stories of juvenile trouble-making. Though the customs were different, and the underlying meanings distinct, and the culture entirely inaccessible to Aila – there was still a quality which was ... entirely _human_. And it was this quality, this endearment, which spoke to Aila's heart and made her think longingly of home. Skyscrapers, cement side-walks, screeching subway tracks, catchy but terrible top-40 music-of-the-moment, and the chiming of the church bell in the center of campus: home.

She was surprised to realize that she did, indeed, miss the music which she had considered so terrible: catchy tunes that lacked meaningful substance but were light-hearted and fun and meaninglessly silly. Aila listened quietly to the sounds of the mallorn-trees for a few moments, and hearing only the soft whispering of the wind through the rustling leaves, she began to sing quietly to herself.

"_Give me a reason to fall in love,_

_Take my hand and let's dance._

_Give me a reason to make me smile,_

_Cuz I think I forgot how ..."_

"Aila?" The voice startled her, catching the words in her throat, and her heart began to beat swiftly with surprise and some panic. The familiarity of the male-Elf voice, however, caused a warning to go off in the back of her mind that it was Legolas – which brought sudden discomfort and immediate embarrassment. But the Elf who approached her now was not Legolas.

"Haldir?" The irritation that had ballooned in her stomach dissipated as immediately as it had appeared. She struggled to get to her feet, ungainly and inelegant, but she was quickly standing before the Elf. Aila had thought of Haldir increasingly with each passing day in Lothlórien because she fantasized that she knew him better than any of the other Lórien-elves, and also because she had an ineffable feeling that she somehow knew him quite well. But now, as she stood in front of him, every thought to that end felt like idle schoolgirl fantasy, and blood colored her cheeks. Her embarrassment, however, was short-lived as her brain quickly pieced together the puzzle of Haldir's return: the march-warden's return to the city meant the quick departure of the Fellowship. Had the Company's time in Lothlórien already come to a close?

"Aila," he said again, smiling broadly, and he closed the distance between them. "_Ni veren an gi ngovaded_."

It took Aila a few moments to translate what he had said using her elementary knowledge of Sindarin, but she had a general idea of his meaning, and so, taking a deep breath to recollect herself, she responded, "_Gi suilannon_."

"_Mae garnen_!" Haldir cried, eyebrows raised in pleasure and surprise and another smile overtook his handsome face. His broad grin was undeniably attractive and perfectly framed straight, white teeth. Blood rushed into Aila's face once more. "You have not been idle, I see."

"The accent is difficult," she acceded, bowing her head slightly and lowering her eyes in a reserved manner, and realized that her heart beat a bit slower when she was not looking at Haldir. "And I have only had a little while to learn."

"Many accolades to your teacher!" Haldir cried again, and he quickly reached out and took her hand in his, interlacing their fingers and pulling her gently forward and out of the small clearing. "I have been sent by the Lord Celeborn to retrieve you: there is a council convening to discuss the departure of your companions, and your presence was specifically requested. I asked that I be assigned the task of finding you – it is, after all, a pleasure to see you again." At this, he smiled again, and Aila couldn't help the shy smile that automatically returned his. So she followed him quickly back to the heart of Caras Galadhon, hand-in-hand, her shoes and the amaryllis blossom forgotten alongside the small stream.

. . .

The Company sat in a wide circle with Celeborn and Galadriel, their positioning reminiscent of the first evening that Haldir had led them into Caras Galadhon to meet the elf-royals. Haldir also joined them in this circle, and a few other of the senior march-wardens. Aila sat down beside Aragorn, trying to keep her eyes fixed on her knees: as Haldir had led her into the grand room, she had seen that Legolas already sat, tall and attentive, in one of the seats, and she realized it was the first time she had seen the Elf in weeks. His absence in her daily life suddenly became painfully obvious to Aila. After having spent so much time constantly in his presence, and the presence of the rest of the Company, the previous weeks felt awkwardly empty and uncertain. She tried desperately not to think of the way her life would feel when he, and the rest of the Company, departed to continue their Quest.

At length, Celeborn spoke, low and determined, enunciating his consonants and rounding the vowels with his thin lips: "Now is the time when those who wish to continue the Quest must harden their hearts to leave this land. Those who no longer wish to go forward may remain here, for a while. But whether they stay or go, none can be sure of peace. For we are come now to the edge of doom. Here those who wish may await the oncoming of the hour till either the ways of the world lie open again, or we summon them to the last need of Lórien. Then they may return to their own lands, or else go to the long home of those that fall in battle."

"As for me," said Boromir, his voice deep and rough, a challenging growl, "my way home lies onward and not back." The man's jaw was set on a hard line and his dark eyes looked to be burning with a deep determination.

"That is true," responded Celeborn, and the Elf looked hard at Aragorn, "but is all this Company going with you to Minas Tirith?"

"We have not decided our course," said Aragorn quickly, and quietly. He did not look up to return the gaze of the Elf, but his eyes rested keenly on the knuckles of his hands, which were in his lap. "Beyond Lothlórien I do not know what Gandalf intended to do. Indeed I do not think that even he had any clear purpose."

"Maybe not," Celeborn replied, "yet when you leave this land you can no longer forget the Great River. As some of you know well, it cannot be crossed by travelers with baggage between Lórien and Gondor, save by boat. On which side will you journey?" The question hung on the air for several seconds, salient and defiant. Celeborn continued, "The way to Minas Tirith lies upon this side, upon the west; but the straight road of the Quest lies east of the River, upon the darker shore. Which shore will you now take?"

"If my advice is heeded," said Boromir, again with a rough edge to his voice, "it will be the western shore, and the way to Minas Tirith. But I am not the leader of the Company," he finished darkly. There was a sallow sheen of sweat on Boromir's brow, and Aila saw, uneasily, that his hand rested on the Horn of Gondor, and his eyes turned eagerly to Frodo. The Hobbit determinedly gazed away from the Gondor man. Aragorn looked up from the ring on his finger to look sharply at Boromir, a tinge of fear and uncertainty in his eye.

Celeborn seemed to settle against the back of his chair, a troubled expression on his serene face. "I see that you do not yet know what to do. It is not my part to choose for you; but I will help you as I may. There are some among you who can handle boats: Legolas, whose folk know the swift Forest River; and Boromir of Gondor; and Aragorn the traveler."

"And one Hobbit!" cried Merry, who could not stand to allow the Elves to discount all the Shire-folk. Galadriel smiled at Merry, causing the hobbit to blush deeply, and Celeborn nodded acquiescently,

"Boats may make your journey less toilsome for a while. Yet they will not give you counsel: in the end you must leave them and the River, and turn west – or east."

Though he continued to give Boromir furtive glances, Aragorn looked much relieved by the gifts of boats, and thanked the Elf accordingly. And though Aila thought that this entirely settled the business which needed to be accounted, it seemed that the Lady Galadriel had something more to say.

"There is something, also," the Lady began quietly, her somber voice low and deep, "which has been weighing in my mind these past days since your arrival here in our fair Lothlórien. It is unavoidable now." The Elf paused now, which Aila thought anxiously must have been purely for dramatic effect – but the words which came next slowed Aila's heartbeat and wiped any thought of sarcasm from her shocked mind. "Aila-Aearvenel shall continue on with the Fellowship."

There were a few beats of perfect, stunned silence. "_What?_" Aila demanded, leaning forward in her chair, her eyebrows pulled heavily together, a thick crease forming in the center of her worried forehead. Her mouth was open with incredulity and amazement. At her word, a flurry of other voices joined the disbelief; Haldir and the other march-wardens spoke urgently that the Lady must not be serious, and even Celeborn's face was a picture of surprise. But Galadriel's face was turned only to Aila, a placid look of satisfaction on her beautiful features, and the Lady awaited Aila's response alone.

After a few moment's more of disbelief, as her mind struggled to reform her shattered thoughts, Aila obliged the Lady's expectation. "That's crazy," Aila said simply, and quite under her breath, as she stared at the Elf-lady, hoping that somehow the Elf had merely a strange sense of humor. "You can't really intend that I continue with the Company, when the entire purpose was that they bring me here!"

"I understand," said the Lady serenely, "that it was Lord Elrond's purpose that there be nine members of the Fellowship: nine to face the Nine that hunt the Ring-bearer. Here you are only eight. With Aila, you are Nine once more."

Aila, unconvinced, cried, "_You would risk my life for poetic license and petty symbolism_?" Silence fell over the entire sitting then, and lasted for well over a minute. She breathed heavily and deeply, pulling in oxygen to cleanse the frayed thoughts in her mind. A growing level of panic was developing at the base of her skull, overwhelming the top of her spinal column and slowly seeping over the rest of her brain – she needed to control herself before the panic overtook her. "Trust me," she said vehemently, staring directly at Galadriel, "the Company will do fine without me."

"It would be dishonest if I did not say I did not greatly desire your guidance on our dark journey. It would be a comfort to me if you were there to help me choose the path and lead the Company." It was Aragorn's voice that rose softly beside her, and Aila turned suddenly to glare at him with an angry and surprised expression on her face. She felt immediately as though he had betrayed her in the deepest sense.

"Are you kidding me?" she said, exasperated. "Advise you on the Company?" And she shook her head vigorously. "I would only be a burden, as I have already been. Your journey is not going to be any less dangerous as you travel south."

"And it might seem good counsel, at first," said Boromir, suddenly a kinder look upon his face, "that we leave a woman behind, who might only hinder our Quest. But from what I have seen, Aila, you are not a burden. Never have a seen any woman fight with such determination and skill as I saw you display in the Mines of Moria, and I, at least, believe that there is strong courage in you still."

"No," she said firmly, and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms childishly over her chest, as though closing off her body posture ended the conversation. It did not. "Celeborn, and Elrond, have said that those among us must only go as far as we wish. I do not wish to continue – it is too dangerous, and I am of no use. Elrond and Gandalf meant that I come to Lothlórien, which I, at least, will respect!"

"You may not wish to continue with the Ring-bearer," said Galadriel slowly, her dark blue eyes set narrowly on Aila. There was an expression of sharp distaste on her face and a hint of it in her voice. "But when his Fellowship departs this land, it, also, will be closed to you. So continue with Frodo! Or, return to Rivendell alone. Or – face the wilds. But you may not remain in fair Lórien once they have left." These words shocked Aila, and any idea of retort sat soundlessly on her tongue, surprised into stillness. Her thoughts chewed on this new predicament swiftly for a few moments, and Aila could think of only one reason for her expulsion from Lothlórien.

"Oh, I understand," Aila said, in a low, sinister voice. She glared at Galadriel now in return, with equally narrowed eyes, and her brown eyes were dark and challenging. "You wish to never leave Lothlórien, but my presence means that you soon have to – it's my son, after all, who is meant to lead you from this place forever. So ... better to send me off with the Fellowship, and hopefully I'll be killed?" Aila raised her eyebrows, a disgusting smile on her face and her cheeks were flushed with anger. "I hate to tell you, _Galadriel_, but your days in your beloved forest are numbered, _with_ or _without_ me! The Elves are leaving this Middle-earth, so enjoy your last Lórien springs while you can, because I guess that you only have about two-hundred more until you all sail for the Undying Lands, never to return!" A quick glance at Haldir might have shown Aila his terrified face, and the sorrow deep in his pale eyes, but she did not look at Haldir: her eyes were focused solely and maliciously on the Lady Galadriel, who coolly returned her angry gaze. "But there is no need for a movement of execution. Send me home – I'll gladly go! Back to Rivendell, and through the mirror – I'll do it! I'll go! I didn't _ask_ to come here, to be some Light Bearer, and I have quite a comfortable life waiting for me on the other side of the mirror – a place where I'm _insignificant_. And you have no idea how much I miss it!"

Celeborn, now, leaned forward in his chair earnestly. "You must fulfill your destiny." There was pain deep in his eyes.

"Fine!" Aila shouted, throwing up her hands in exasperation. "But your Lady Galadriel wants me gone so badly, so why don't we do this: I'll just have sex with the first Elf I see, pop out a son – and then you can have him! And I'll go home again." Not surprisingly, the Elves in attendance shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Haldir looked at the ground, Legolas blushed deeply and looked up into the trees, and even Gimli's face was seen to be reddening through the thick hairs of his beard.

"Lady Aila ..." Celeborn's face was stern and somber, but there was also a note of plain discomfort and exasperation. But Aila could not listen to whatever he wanted to say. Her stomach was churning with anger, born of surprise and exasperation and desperate fear, and it had to be released.

"No, you listen!" she shouted, waving her hands violently in front of her to emphasize each word as though it were its own salient point. "I am not afflicted with false modesty – humility has _never_ been something that I was good at. I've always been just a little bit arrogant and it's mostly because I've always thought I was so much smarter than everyone else around me, but now ... now I must know for certain that I'm smarter than all of you because what you're saying, what you're suggesting is ... it's _idiotic_. It's insanity. You're crazy. No," she spread her hands in a sharp gesture at that last syllable, uttering the declination definitely. Celeborn started to move toward her, as though to rise from his chair, his hand raised and an angry expression on his face, lips stretched over bare teeth and eyebrows raised in incredulity, but it was Galadriel that held Aila's eyes.

The elf-lady was standing now, herself and yet not still herself: her expression darkened while her hair became a translucent white, light shone angrily from her skin and her eyes narrowed, and a strong wind, unfelt by Aila or any of the others, began to disturb her long hair and twist it around her face and body. This was an elf-lady at her most beautiful and most terrible. Aila shrank back at the sight of her, all anger and frustration forgotten. "That is quite enough!" Galadriel's voice rang out like a deafening knell, quieting Aila's rapid heartbeat, and the silence hung oppressively over the gathered company for the breadth of several moments. "Foolish child!" Galadriel scolded, and her countenance seemed to shrink again until she was reduced once more to Galadriel, Lady of the Wood. "Have you forgotten already the charge laid upon you? The sword must be brought to its master!" And before Aila could remember what the Elf spoke of, Galadriel reached behind her chair and pulled out a long, glittering, silver sword, standing from her chair and brandishing the threatening sword in the center of the gathered circle. A few gasped in recognition of the sword, and beside Aila, Aragorn leapt to his feet as well.

"Glamdring!" he cried, surprise etched across his features. He turned and stared at Aila questioningly, and asked her, "What does it mean? That you are charged with Gandalf's sword?"

"Gandalf the Grey is dead," she responded sharply, though careful to be specific in her words. She, perhaps, said this too harshly, and it hurt her to see Aragorn's once hopeful face fall again so heavily, but Aila's anger was quickly resurfacing. "I am not the only one who can carry this sword to its new master! Give it to Aragorn, or give it to Legolas! Either of them can wield it better than I, and either can deliver it to its master."

"It must be you!" the Elf demanded, holding the sword out toward her insistently.

Aila stood swiftly, and crossed the space in the center of the circle, reaching to take the glittering sword from Galadriel's hand. The Elf handed the sword to her, with an almost smug expression on her beautiful face – an expression which caused more anger to bubble in Aila's torso. But instead of engaging in the argument again, Aila simply took the sword and turned on her heel, storming out of the counsel circle, out of Celeborn's house, down the ladder and out into the trees of Lothlórien.

. . .

_Ni veren an gi ngovaded _= I am happy to meet you

_Gi suilannon_ = Greetings

_Mae garnen_ = Well done


	22. Unmatched

Ch. 22 Unmatched

Aila raced into the trees, silvery trunks whipped past her and the golden canopy was merely a blur; she did not focus on either of these things, but rather only on the earth before her feet. Her heart beat swiftly and erratically, and her ragged breath was heavy in her ears. Glamdring, still clutched in her hand, was weighty and cumbersome as she ran forward, and her palm was slick with nervous perspiration. But still she doggedly ran on, for as she ran into the forest of Lórien, her mind was stilled and calm. She ran and ran, leaving Galadriel and the Company behind, physically and symbolically, and each step felt better and lighter to her. She strode rapidly, bare feet pounding relentlessly into the earth, until her right foot caught on something sharp – a twig or a rock – and Aila stumbled forward, the sudden pain disturbing the rhythm of her stride, and she took a few stuttering steps, clumsily bringing herself to a halt. And as she stopped, standing in the looming quiet of Lothlórien, the wall of worries and fears and frustrations which she had been running from caught up with her and overwhelmed her. The great tidal wave of unease and malcontent washed over her and drowned her, forced her to her knees. Ceaseless thoughts of terror seeped back into her mind, choking any rational process and flooding her with a confusing cacophony of anxiety. Her sudden apprehension grew, fed upon itself and reproduced, and she bent her back against the heaviness that it weighed in her mind. But with the unease, her anger also returned, bubbling up again from the familiar well in the pit of her stomach, burning and spitting within her chest, clutching at her heart with agonizing fingers.

Tears welled up in her eyes and Aila finally let the emotion escape out of her body, lifting Glamdring with both of her hands, and with a primal and desperate yell, drove it into the soft earth with all of her strength. The sword disappeared more than a foot into the ground, and wobbled powerlessly after she released the hilt: a joker's dance, trapped within the dirt. Aila watched, absent and inattentive, for a few seconds as the sword wobbled, and as the sword's sparse movement ceased a newer wave of emotion fell on her, and she felt impotent – adrift in swift river and she no longer had the strength to fight its current. Aila rocked back, shifting from her knees, rolling over the tops of her feet, and falling with her back against a nearby tree-trunk. She lifted her right foot to assess the source of the throbbing which shot up through the arch of her foot, and she saw that a small stone had sliced open the thick sole of her foot and blood flowed readily from the wound. Roughly and inexpertly, she swiped the palm of her hand over the wound, but only succeeded in smearing blood over her hand and clearing the sole anew for a fresh wave of blood. Overwhelmed, Aila lifted her bloody hands to her face and wept.

Her tears were cathartic, and she panted heavily, each violently exhaled breath rocked her chest and stripped a layer afresh from her tight throat. Each individual teardrop held its own specific fear and worry, and as they fell down her cheeks, the tears relieved her somewhat, and so she continued to wail and cry and call out angrily to the forest. She wept for the cut in her foot, and the pain which was still throbbing in her arch, and in doing so she relieved some of that pain. She wept for Gandalf, whom she had done nothing to save, and in doing so she released some of the tension which had been building up around her heart. She wept for the pressures placed upon her as Light Bearer, and in doing so released some of the worry and discomfort that had been gripping her lungs and freezing her blood. Aila wept also for home – for the now distant land, inaccessible to her, and in doing so, in recognizing the agony and nostalgia she felt for her home, she felt comforted and felt much better about being away from it. And she wept for Duke, because she missed him so dearly; and she wept for Frodo, because she wished she could relieve him of his burden; and she wept for herself, because she was confused and alone; and she wept and wept.

Slowly, her tears began to fade, and the sobs which wracked and shook her body subsided. Aila still panted heavily, trying to catch her breath as though she had sprinted a long distance, and she stared forlornly at Glamdring, still driven deep into the soft ground, and she wondered how long she had been absent. She thought briefly of returning, but immediately dismissed the notion, knowing that she could not return so soon. Her body and her emotions were spent, and she did not have the energy to argue against her continuing with the Company. It was ... unfathomable, and, though she had been forced into many things since arriving in Middle Earth, she could not allow any further interference in the quest of the Fellowship – especially from herself.

A twig snapped loudly, barely some fifteen yards from where she sat. Aila immediately understood that whoever approached her had made the noise on purpose, so that she would not be startled by their presence. She hated the idea that another individual was coming to witness her distress. Hastily, she lifted her hands to her face and quickly smudged the remaining tears from her cheek, wiping her dripping nose on the back of her hand.

Softly, as though trying not to disturb the quiet of the forest, a voice spoke out: "Aila?" She winced warily at the sound of her name, and this time the warning that sprang up in the back of her mind was dead on.

Legolas slowly appeared, his silent steps were measured and guarded as he approached her. However, he quickly saw the bright blood that was smeared across her left palm, and his eyes slipped rapidly to the sword driven deep into the earth. His posture of caution disappeared entirely and he strode quickly to her side and fell to his knees beside her, reaching both hands out to grasp her bloodied hand and he whispered, "_Man agorer angin_?" His words were soft and swift, mostly under his breath, and that he used the delicate trills of his native language meant that the phrase which escaped his lips was not meant for Aila. But as his fingers touched the flesh of her hand, she forcefully jerked her hand away from his grasp and turned her face pointedly away from him. She pursed her lips into a taut, thin line, and did not say anything. Legolas, also, did not speak, but remained on his knees for several seconds, silently watching her. After a minute or so, he settled back on his heels, and leaned his back against the tree trunk beside her, stretching his long legs in front of him. Patiently, the Elf folded his hands in his lap and waited. For effect, he even looked away from Aila and instead his eyes perused the scene. Glamdring rose stoutly from the ground, an alien and humorous growth of the forest. There was blood on the ground, in a spotty trail from the place where Aila had cut herself on a sharp stone. Her foot was still slowly dripping blood, pooling onto the ground, but already the wound was clotting, and the remaining blood was viscous and cold. However, beyond the immediate scenes of chaos, the forest of Lothlórien was as tranquil as ever: golden leaves waved lazily in a light breeze, and the air was cool and crisp and refreshing. Legolas listened casually to the deep rhythms of the forest, but Aila could not hear these natural songs and so to her the silence was deafening.

"I won't go, Legolas," she said finally to break the silence. Her voice was strained and sounded foreign to her, it was still choked by her tight throat and the remnant of violent tears. But the Elf still said nothing, he did not respond. Aila could hear him inhale deeply and slowly exhale; and from the corner of her eye she could see that his hands, folded in his lap, reoriented their positioning, but otherwise he remained still and silent, continuing to gaze into the trees. "I _can't_ go," she continued, her voice coming a bit clearer this time. Aila wasn't sure why the silence was bothering her so deeply, but she knew that she needed Legolas to say something: to either cajole her into continuing or to command her to stay in Lórien. "I can't go," she said again, more firmly. "I'm so afraid, and all of my courage is gone: I have spent it all in trying to get to Lothlórien. And now I can give no aide to Frodo or the Company – I am not a warrior, and can only continue to be a burden." Now that she was speaking, it felt freeing and therapeutic: as the running had felt good, and the crying had been cathartic, so too did the words, now that she spoke them, heal something in her heart. And as she continued to speak, she saw from the corner of her eye that Legolas' head turned to watch her, his deep blue eyes trained on her face. "I am not meant to continue in this journey," she said, exasperated, and she lifted her hands back to her face, cradling her jaw. "I don't even like camping! I like _this_, Legolas, _civilization_. I like the feeling of clean skin, and clean clothes, and clean hair!" She grasped a lock of shining hair to emphasize her point, and, finally, turned her face to look at him. Her eyebrows were raised high, in coupled exasperation and desperation that he understand her.

Legolas saw her face, then, for the first time, and what he saw surprised him. Her skin was pale and blotchy, and her nose was bright red and running, and her dark eyelashes framed eyes red-rimmed with tears and strain. The water of her tears had washed out the color of her eyes, so that the redness emphasized a pale, shining olive green. The color was shocking and hollow, and Aila's exaggerated features were ugly in the contortion of her distress. Unthinkingly, Legolas reached out and placed a comforting hand on her knee, his long fingers wrapping around her raised knee-cap where she had bent her legs in front of her chest. But she stared at his hand with such an expression of surprise and uncertainty that he quickly removed it, and uncomfortably folded it back with his other hand in his lap. The Elf cleared his throat and spoke for the first time.

"I do not believe that your courage is spent. I know your strength, and regardless of your own impression of it, it has not waned. It has never waned." Aila kept her eyes trained away from him while he spoke, examining instead the dried blood on her left palm, which she intently flaked off with more interest than was necessary. But her jaw-line was tense, and it belied that she was inattentive to Legolas' words, so he continued. "You have not been a burden."

His last sentence hung in the air for only a few moments before Aila turned to look at him skeptically, her paled eyes open wide. "Not a burden? Legolas – only think of all the times that you have had to rescue me, or that I have been so lucky to only narrowly escape certain death! It is lucky that the wolf didn't tear me apart, and absolute chance that an orc didn't strike me down in the Chamber of Mazarbul, or that one of their arrows didn't find me. Or that I didn't freeze to death on Caradhras." But this last memory, Aila admitted, she couldn't think of with fear or threat of death. Thinking of the night the Company had spent on the dread mountain only brought warm memories of the fur lining of a cloak between her fingers, and a gently rising and falling chest beneath her warm cheek. She dropped her eyes from Legolas' face once more, turning her attention back to her fingers, and she didn't know that Legolas thought of the memory with the same warmth and fondness.

"You speak only of dangerous situations which you have survived – and which your strength and character helped you through." Legolas' voice became more insistent, and he leaned forward toward her, unfolding his hands and holding them plaintively to exaggerate his point. "None of the Company saved you from that wolf; you killed him yourself, and with only a short knife. And as Boromir has said, you fought with ferocity and skill in the depths of Moria. You have demonstrated poise and strength. I do not believe your courage is spent, as I cannot believe that you are weak."

"It doesn't matter what you believe," Aila said sharply, sudden poison in her voice. She absently swiped a hand over her face, rubbing the dried remnants of her tears from her cheeks, not realizing that she smeared bits of dried blood on her cheek as she did so. "I know who I am. And I know when I'm afraid. And I'm _afraid_," she emphasized, wrapping her arms around her legs and tugging her knees against her chest. Her back was beginning to ache as it rested against the hard trunk of the tree, but she ignored the discomfort. "I can't understand why Galadriel would be so determined that I continue with the Company. Aren't I important enough that she wouldn't risk my life? I don't understand what benefit I would have to the Fellowship."

"Can you not see?" Legolas asked, his eyebrows knitting together over wide eyes. "Aragorn may lead us well, but he has not your knowledge; he cannot see the path we must take as you can. We should all be wary to ignore Galadriel's counsel in this. You alone can guide us in Gandalf's absence."

"Gandalf!" she cried, turning her face down to rest her head momentarily on her knees. She lifted her head again after a few seconds and she shook it quickly. A sharp inhalation indicated that she was close, again, to tears. "Did you know that I knew Gandalf would die?" she asked, admitting, finally, her part in the wizard's Fall. "And I did nothing," she said, her voice laced with contempt. "I did nothing to save him – and even if I couldn't save him, why didn't I at least comfort him? Couldn't I have made him understand why it was unavoidable? That I couldn't change his Fate?" Aila spoke again into the trees, unable to bring herself to look at Legolas' face. She was afraid that this sudden revelation had filled his eyes with accusation, but instead he still looked at her softly and with pity.

"Your knowledge is indeed a burden, beyond even what I had imagined," he said slowly, measuring his words against the rhythm of the forest as he listened to the moving leaves.

"A burden!" she cried loudly, shaking her head again. "That isn't even the worst of it! Try having the fate of an entire race in your hands." She flung her legs out straight in front of her and crossed her arms over her chest, lifting her right hand to hide her face in for a moment. Legolas had bowed his head to regard his own hands intently, but lifted his head again to look at Aila in surprise when he heard her laugh. Indeed, she chuckled lightly under her breath, and shook her head in a disbelieving way, and even smiled a little. "I guess this is the part where I'm supposed to tell you what a damaged person I am." She lifted a hand and placed it firmly against her heart, her voice laced with mocking sarcasm. "That I have never been in love, and that I wonder if I'm even capable of loving anything, and how an entire race's dependence on my ability to love – which, of course, is nonexistent – has terrified me down into my poor, cold heart." She laughed, softly and derisively, again and Legolas couldn't understand way. "It isn't true, of course. If only my life were so dramatic and full of angst! Maybe then I'd actually be an interesting person." The humor in her eyes faded quietly, and her hands fell again to rest in her lap. "But I'm a perfectly normal human being; capable of the full spectrum of social emotions. I've dated some really wonderful guys – and broken their hearts. And I've dated complete assholes, and had my heart broken. But there is so much more at stake as the Light Bearer. How am I supposed to choose? How do I choose an Elf, knowing that I am dooming him?"

"He would be blessed indeed that could say he had your love."

"Blessed, sure," she replied sarcastically, taking a slow breath and staring out into the trees. "But blessed for how long? I'm not an Elf, Legolas; I'm going to die. I'm mortal. And I'm not even of the same long-lived race of Men as Aragorn, who is already 87 but runs around like he's thirty. I think that I would be lucky to even live to eighty-seven! I'm already twenty-five, Legolas, and I would be surprised if my life weren't already one-third over."

For a few seconds, Legolas could not respond but his expression was pained. He said under his breath, "So short a time ..." Aila bit her lip as she looked at him, and her face mirrored his pained and sorrowful expression.

"Whomever I choose – I'll die and he'll be left behind. And how short does my life seem to an Elf, to an immortal? Even if I live another fifty years, how quickly do those years seem to pass? How can I so punish the one that I love?"

Neither of them spoke for a long time. The leaves rustled above them and birds fluttered overhead and the light was dimming, but neither Aila or Legolas acknowledged the coming evening. They couldn't look at one another, and pondered individually the full meaning of Aila's realization. Both knew that Elves were matched to their loves for life, and so Aila's match would be left painfully alone after her death. And so they sat in silence for several minutes; Legolas' lips were pursed in a tight, thoughtful line, and his eyebrows were drawn together over narrowed eyes. Aila wiped the back of her hand across her nose again, still not rid of the remainder of her crying fit.

When Aila spoke again, her words were quiet and measured and cautious. She stared blindly ahead of her, into the trees of Lórien, unable to bring herself to look at Legolas or even at her own hands. "And I've never really thought ..." she began slowly, her words barely audible, but she paused and took a slow breath. Resetting herself, she began again: "I have never thought seriously about having children. I've always been able to convince myself that I didn't really want any. But now ... now that the choice has been taken away from me, I've realized that," and she paused again, breath vibrating nervously in her throat. "I see now that I do want that; that I want to have a son." She shook her head and ever so slowly, turned to look at Legolas, who was staring at her with wide blue eyes. "But he'll be Halfelven, and I'm mortal: which means I'll never live to see him grow up. I'll never travel with him to the Western Shores, or into the Undying Lands. I'll never see him fully grown and he'll never really know me – I'll just be a distant childhood memory: an old, dying, human mother." She was staring at Legolas desperately. "Just when I realize that having a son is something that I actually want, I recognize that I'll be robbed of ever really knowing him." And then she suddenly smiled, but it was humorless and didn't reach her eyes. Her smile was bitter, woeful and pained. "I never realized my life could be so tragically poetic."

She tore her eyes away from Legolas again, and hung her head, looking again at her hands in her lap. Beside her, Legolas remained wordless but moved closer to her, and he gently wrapped his arms around her, shifting her away from the tree trunk and pulling her to rest against his own body. She quickly obliged his embrace and wrapped her arms around his torso, placing her cheek against his shoulder, and rearranging her body around his. He tilted his head and rested his cheek on the crown of her head, and the position was familiar and comforting to Aila. She thought again of Caradhras, and the comforting feel of his touch in the dark mines of Moria, and closed her eyes to ignore the panic and sorrow that had been overpowering her. Aila focused instead on the rhythm of Legolas' breathing, feeling the way that his chest rose and fell, and she breathed deeply his familiar, sweet scent. Each passing second that she spent in his warm embrace, her worries began to melt away and her heartbeat slowed and the knot in her stomach began to unwind. The twilight was descending quickly now and the onrushing darkness reminded Aila of the last evening she had spent in Legolas' company, and even though she knew that she should be angry that he was suddenly speaking to her again, Aila couldn't bring herself to move away from the safe place she had found within his arms.

"Wait," she said quietly, but didn't move an inch. "Why are you speaking to me again? I thought we were no longer friends." Without moving his head, Legolas responded that he didn't understand what she meant. "We haven't spoken almost the entire time we've been in Lothlórien," she reminded him, but didn't mention the specifics of their last encounter. The memory hung uncomfortably in the air around them.

Slowly, Legolas lifted his cheek from her head and didn't say anything for a few moments, as though thinking of the right words. "In Rivendell, your close friendship with Glorfindel severely limited the number of amaryllis blossoms you received." Immediately, Aila did not like the direction that he was headed, but it made her sad rather than angry, as it might have done otherwise. "I had no desire to cause a similar effect in Lothlórien, so I ... largely removed myself from your company." He waited, then, for her rage, but Aila only sighed forlornly.

"I just can't figure out," she said softly, "who gave you permission to make these decisions about our friendship. Just ... stop doing it, okay? Deciding when we should be friends and when we shouldn't be."

"That is something which I can easily agree upon," he said casually, and even allowed a small smile to play across his lips. Aila chuckled softly.

"You're an idiot, Legolas," she accused warmly, smiling weakly into the fabric of his tunic.

"At least now you can be absolutely certain that you are smarter than me," he joked quietly, and Aila smiled again, remembering her harsh, arrogant words.

"I was a bit of an asshole, wasn't I?" She lifted her head from his shoulder to look into the Elf's face. Legolas smiled back at her, and realized that she looked a mess. The red rimming her eyes was fading, but the washed out olive color of her eyes remained; her cheeks were splotched with dried tears and blood and her nose was still running; but there was a miniscule, weak smile on her full lips, and her plump cheeks were bright red with emotion. Her thick hair hung straight down past her shoulders, and a piece had fallen across the corner of her eye as she looked up at him, so Legolas lifted a hand to push the strand of hair behind her ear, his longs fingers delicately brushing against the skin of her cheek. As he did so, her eyes closed momentarily, and she opened them again to smile at him in an almost apologetic way. The darkness of night had nearly fallen over them entirely. Once he had carefully tucked her hair behind her ear, Legolas, unable to help himself, cupped his hand against her cheek, lifting her face up toward him and his eyes roved rapidly for a few moments, taking in every contour of her face. Her lips parted and she breathed unsteadily through her mouth, recognizing the feeling welling up in her stomach, which she had felt already twice before. She couldn't move away – in fact, she couldn't move at all, and she remained rooted in place as Legolas' face moved marginally toward her.

"Aila!" The shout rang out loudly, the voice sounded near to them. "Aila-Aearvenel!" Legolas' ears perked and he could hear that another Elf was moving quickly through the forest toward them, and so he quickly pulled away from Aila, releasing her from his embrace and pulling his hand away from her face. The two exchanged an extended glance filled with uncertainty and regret when Calathedil burst out of the trees. The twin of Calenethril looked harried, her pale eyes wide and her mouth open with surprise when she found Aila sitting on the ground beside Legolas. Both Aila and Legolas stared at the Elf unbelievingly. Calathedil cried out, her voice quick and worried, "_Oduleg hi am man theled_?_" _The Elf spoke hastily to Aila and Legolas, though Aila couldn't comprehend or translate the rapid Sindarin. Aila scrambled to her feet, holding her palms out flat to Calathedil in a gesture to calm the Elf, but the sight of her bloody palms only incited the Elf more, and incomprehensible words flew from her pink lips.

Legolas leapt to his feet as well beside Aila, and he listened intently to Calathedil for a few moments before he turned, alarmed, to Aila. His eyes were wide and his features were formed in a concerned and worried expression. "She says that you are in danger," he said quickly to Aila, his eyebrows raised, and he scanned the forest for any immediate sign of menace. Aila, however, couldn't immediately comprehend why Calathedil thought she was in danger, until Legolas elaborated. "She says something about it not being safe for you to be alone at night in Lórien."

Aila suddenly laughed – really, truly laughed; and she felt very nearly fulfilled to have covered almost the entire spectrum of emotion in the last few hours. Calathedil had apparently misunderstood Isgwen's instruction when she sent the Elf to be Aila's evening escort. In fact, the Elf had arrived in perfect time to perform the real duty of Aila's _Galthellim_ escorts. "Tell her that I'm fine," she said to Legolas, and then, turning to Calathedil, smiled and said plainly, spreading her hands wide, "I'm fine." And then Aila walked to Glamdring, pulling the sword free from the earth, and held it tightly in her hand. She turned to Legolas. "Take me back to the Company. We should all take counsel together before we head South."

. . .

_Man agorer angin?_ = What happened to you?

_Oduleg hi am man theled? _= Why are you here?


	23. Animalistic Hymn

Author's Note: Please forgive my complete distraction this week and utter failure to post earlier. My best friend lives in Sendai, very near to the epicenter of the earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Japan, and I had a few heinous days of waiting until cell service and the internet was back up so he could contact me. As such, I was not in the mood for writing. Luckily, he is safe, happy and healthy and assisting with relief efforts.

This chapter is titled after my favorite poem, by Edith Södergran, as it speaks very poignantly on the power of nature.

. . .

Ch. 23 Animalistic Hymn

Upon hearing that Aila had decided on continuing with the Company, Aragorn's face visibly relaxed, settling into a thankful expression of supreme relief. He placed a strong hand on her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze, and he also smiled a small, crooked, half-smile that spoke of his appreciation and the reprieve in his heart. But his thankfulness and kind expression did not likewise ease Aila's heart; rather, she wondered how much the Man hoped she would aide him in guiding the path of the Company. And she also wondered at how relieved he seemed at having secured both the boats and herself to respectively delay and assist his eventual, and unavoidable, decision. But even as these thoughts caused a deep frown on her face, and she thought perhaps she had made her decision rashly, Boromir thumped a hand gladly on her back, joking and congratulating her on her newfound backbone. Pippin and Merry grinned at her unabashedly and even Frodo, though pensive and withdrawn, also expressed his pleasure at her continuance on the quest. Gimli the Dwarf puffed out his chest, drew himself to full height, and promised to defend her when the need was there. The camaraderie was comforting, and washed over her like a soft, warm, welcoming breeze, but it was largely Legolas' presence, close behind her shoulder, that steadied her will and made her resolute in the decision that she had made: she would travel South with Frodo and the Company, leaving the land of Lórien the day after next.

And already the time seemed to pass more quickly, with the promise of her impending departure from the land so soon on the horizon.

The members of the Company arranged themselves on the couches in the pavilion, forming a rough circle so that they could speak and take council together, but as Aila moved to follow the others, Aragorn's hand was suddenly on her wrist and restraining her. As the others sat, Aila remained standing somewhat removed with Aragorn, and with Legolas, who remained beside Aila. The edges of the Man's dark grey eyes tightened slightly, his eyebrows lowered heavily. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked her quietly, shifting his eyes from her face to Legolas. It was Aila's turn, then, to place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"There could be no greater honor than to assist Frodo, and the members of the Fellowship," she said softly and she smiled, though weakly. After a moment's pause, she hefted Glamdring, the sword which she still held in her hand. "And I should like very much to meet this sword's new master." And though Aragorn could not understand – and indeed his grey eyes darkened at the thought of the sword's former master, Gandalf the Grey – the knowledge that she would travel south to meet Gandalf the White comforted Aila and quieted the nervous thrumming of unsettled blood in her veins.

Movement in the corner of her eye caught her attention, and she turned her head in time to see Haldir entering the pavilion, emerging from the trees of Caras Galadhon, and the Elf looked relieved to have found her, as worry fell from his features as his eyes fell upon her. He hurried toward her, eyebrows held high on his broad forehead and his mouth turned from a frown to a thin smile. "Aila!" he called as he approached, and a few long, quick steps brought him before her. His eyes held only her countenance, and he ignored both Aragorn and Legolas, though they stood beside her. "I have been searching for you," he said breathlessly, the words tumbling gladly from his lips, and his relief at having found her was etched deep across the features of his handsome face and within the steady tenor of his voice. This expression, however, quickly faded when he really looked at her – he noted that she leaned heavily on her left foot and he saw that her face and hands were marred with dried blood – and alarm returned to his face and voice. He said quickly and quietly, "_Ci maer?_" And with a steady, slow hand, he reached toward Aila to delicately touch the blood on her cheek.

Without thinking, Aila lifted her left hand to stay his movement, and swept his hand away from her face. "I'm fine," she echoed, a broken record of herself. She dropped her hand again to her side. "I was in the forest, and I cut myself," she said quickly, noting the way that the salt from her dried tears pulled at her skin and made her face feel tight and drawn. "I cut myself and ..." But her words trailed away to nothing, hanging unfinished in the air, because as immediately as she had felt the need to explain everything to Haldir, another desire to keep her conversation with Legolas private also sprang up and silenced her lips. She finished lamely: "It's okay. I just need to wash up."

It was plain on Haldir's face that he knew she withheld something from him, and his icy eyes looked first to Aragorn and then to Legolas. Though Aila did not follow his gaze, she thought he might have seen something in either of their gazes, because when his eyes were turned back to her, Haldir's expression was again one of concern and earnestness. "I come to find you so that you know – Aila, you must know," he emphasized, "that all the Elves of Lothlórien do not hold with our Lady Galadriel in this. You must not go, but remain here in Lórien, your home. You cannot be thrust from this land where there are so many that would defend you." Haldir paused a moment, again giving momentary glances to both Aragorn and Legolas, and he stepped forward to Aila, effectively and bodily shutting both Aragorn and Legolas from their conversation, as he reached a cautious hand to touch her shoulder softly. "I, for one, do not wish to see you go."

His words froze Aila where she stood; only her eyes moved, and only then did they rove searchingly over the Elf's face, and frantically. Suddenly, she wondered why she was heading South, and wondered also that perhaps she could remain in Lórien. Could she stay if Haldir would defend her? And would the guards, who bore her symbol on their chests, also hold their allegiance to her? Or the Sisters of the _Galthellim_ – would they stand against their Lord and Lady to defend her right to remain in her House? Should she continue with the Company when remaining behind was becoming so viable an option?

But even as she wondered these things, the thoughts flying haphazardly around her brain and colliding with one another, Legolas stepped forward, inserting his shoulder between Haldir and Aila, effectively breaking their tête-à-tête. When he spoke, his words were strong and harsh. "She has already made her decision to continue South."

As he spoke the words, Aila closed her eyes against them – afraid of the look which fell over Haldir's face – and she wished that Legolas had not said those words, and also that he had not spoken them so harshly to the march-warden. She opened her eyes again to see that Haldir still stared at her over Legolas' shoulder, his mouth turned down in a deep frown and his forehead creased with worry lines. "Is it truly your desire," he asked softly, blue eyes piercing into hers, "to leave this fair land?"

But Aila thought he was asking a different question entirely. Written across his striking features and woven into the tenor of his speech, Haldir asked if she desired to leave _him_.

"It's true," she said meekly, forcing the words though they stuck in her throat and threatened to choke her. "I have decided to continue with the Company." And it was Haldir's turn to close his eyes against unwanted words. He pressed his eyelids tightly together, allowing the meaning of her words to descend on him. But his expression quickly changed from grief to anger, and when his eyes flew open again, his icy gaze was turned again on Legolas.

"And who, then, has so changed her mind?" he demanded, raising his eyebrows skeptically at the Mirkwood Elf. "For it seemed to be at the council that her mind was quite set on remaining in Lórien." And though Aila stood behind Legolas, she could see that his ear twitched slightly and his jaw-line tightened, a small muscle in the corner of his jaw popped outward as he pressed his molars tightly together. A dark look fell over his features, but Legolas did not say anything to the Lórien-elf, but rather they each stared one another down; a challenge, a match of strength. Silence descended, though pregnant, and the two continued their motionless and silent battle, and Aragorn's gaze slid uneasily between the two Elves, the Man's eyebrows raised high on his forehead in bemusement and uncertainty.

But in spite of the tense scene developing before her, Aila could not ignore the insinuation that she did not – or could not – make such a weighty decision without undue outside influence, and the idea was foundationally insulting to her. Her familiar temper flared, and her jaw-line tensed, a mirror of Legolas, and she stepped forward, placing herself again between the two Elves. "I follow Frodo, and Frodo alone!" she shouted at them, realizing only too late that her voice was far too loud. The entire collected Company turned their faces to stare at her. Haldir's gaze also turned away from Legolas to regard her, his expression of sorrow returned, and Aila saw that even Legolas looked at her, with surprise, as though he had lost something dear. Under their gazes, she quailed, embarrassed. None said anything for the span of a minute, and instead of standing awkwardly where she was, Aila instead chose to turn and, waving to Calathedil that she should follow, Aila hurriedly ascended the stair to her House, where she knew that neither Legolas or Haldir could follow.

. . .

The following afternoon – Aila's last in Lothlórien – found her in a familiar and comfortable place: quietly soaking in the heat of a bath, steam rising lethargically from the surface of the water, her body submerged to her shoulders. She was attempting to imprint the feeling of the bathwater into her sense memory, locking it away in a corner of her brain accessible when she wanted to recall the sweet sound of the water gently lapping against itself at even her most slight movement; when she wanted to remember the softness of the water, like crushed velvet between her fingers as she traced nonsense figures in the tensile surface of the water; when she wanted to recollect how it felt to be clean, and warm, and safe. The water had a soothing embrace, a natal comfort, which beckoned to Aila, calling her deeper into its aqueous cradle. Aila pretended that the moment were eternal.

But the water was already losing its natal heat, cooling to a tepidity which no longer wrapped comforting arms around her body; but still, Aila held on to the feeling, unwilling to release the experience, desperate to prolong the memory at her fingertips. Already only a memory.

A sharp knock at the door broke her reverie, the quick rapping forced her eyes open again, and she looked to the offending door. Isgwen's muffled voice could be heard through the sturdy wood, though her consonants blurred and the vowels were lost entirely within the sturdy wood of the washroom door. If Aila had thought that Isgwen would resist her plans to head south with Frodo and the Company, she had been surprised to find herself wrong. The Elf, sister of the _Galthellim_, had said only, and purposefully, "_Boe?_" This question, this one word, had surprised Aila, and had forced her to return Isgwen's steady gaze. But after a few moments, Aila nodded, confirming that her departure from Lórien, or more precisely her continuance with the Company, was, indeed, necessary. More surprising still, the solemn Elf responded with an easy and acquiescent, "_Ae 'iestog._" And the matter was finished. It did not surprise Aila, however, when Isgwen insisted on packing Aila's travel bag herself, leaving Aila with little to do. And so she had taken to walking despondently around her House, gently and thoughtfully touching objects she had hardly noticed before but pretending that she had developed a sentimentality for them, which of course she had not. But the activity, idle as it was, made her feel better about leaving Lórien behind, however twisted the logic. She left now a home, where there had only been a House in the trees: a few planks of wood and some soft cushions. The dull ache in Aila's heart which her false ministrations created was at least proof that, though she might never return here, it was a place where she might have belonged. Perhaps in another fairy-tale, she told herself.

Isgwen's voice came again through the door and this time Aila could recognize enough of the syllables to know what the Elf said. A visitor waited for her below in the courtyard. Aila couldn't stand to get out of the bath, even then, and so she waited until the water had lost all of its residual heat and she began to shiver. Her hair, which she had kept out of the rapidly cooling water, was nearly dry, and so, unable to remain any longer in this sorry state of desperation, Aila finally rose from the water and dressed.

When she descended the stairs, she saw immediately that it was Haldir who waited for her at the foot of the tree, casually exchanging words with the guards who always maintained a position there, a curious symbol of star over ocean waves woven into the chests of the mail shirts they wore. He spotted her as soon as she had seen him, so that she could not retreat; but his calm expression assuaged her discomfort and drew her to him. "Aila," he said softly, smiling, as she descended to the forest floor beside him. He reached forward to clasp his hands in his, and he said simply, "walk with me." Aila couldn't remember agreeing, but soon the two were walking amidst the tall trees of Lórien, far below the lofty city of the Galadhrim, Aila's hand resting on the Elf's arm as he lead her deeper in to the forest.

After a long time of silence, Haldir's steady voice broke the impasse between them. His fingers rested gently on her hand. "I find that I must be," he began slowly, measuring each syllable, and he emphasized his next word, "honest with you. It is not my desire that you continue with the Ring-bearer and his Fellowship." She opened her mouth, surprised and unhappy, to respond, but a swift shake of his head silenced the words before they had left her lungs. "But it is not my place to restrain you – indeed, I think that I could not, even if I should try. You have made your decision and continue South freely; and however I may wish that you remain in Lórien, I see that it cannot be so."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, wondering if he had even heard the nearly inaudible words that had slipped over her tongue, but he nodded immediately, his aural perception exceptional. "But can't you understand why I would go? These nine," she began, but quickly amended herself. "These eight ... they are the closest companions that I have in this world, in Middle Earth. What worst kind of coward would I be to deny any aide that I could offer them, even if it came at my own peril. Though, I am not sure I would have made this decision without the specific prompting of Galadriel." And she shook her head, her expression darkening, and she turned her face away from Haldir. "And how can I stay? How can I stay in _her_ city – when I know that she would wish me gone? She has only ever looked at me with distrust and suspicion." She shook her head again, now decisively. "I cannot remain in this city, where the Lady is so unkind to me."

"The Lady Galadriel is both beautiful and wise," said Haldir immediately, and Aila turned to look at him, surprised and betrayed. Haldir, reading her expression, smiled in an apologetic way and his icy eyes softened. "But she is not infallible, nor is she above susceptibility to sentimentality and love of her home. Your arrival – of Aearvenel, _Colcalmë_ – is both a blessing and a haunting curse; an event of both joy and pain. There were many who believed, or perhaps rather hoped, that you would never come, that the legends were only fanciful tales that idle Elves wove to prophecy." Though Aila didn't fully understand, she did not, or could not, ask the question at the forefront of her mind. Instead, she waited for Haldir to clarify himself, though he remained silent for the tortuous span of several minutes, a thoughtful and haunting expression on his clear and elegant features. And then he turned his face to her, looking at her as though he hadn't noticed her presence. "You see," he said quietly, his eyes remaining on her though they continued to walk forward through the pathless forest. "I have heard it said that your coming is prophesied: writ in the annals of elven history and that we only awaited the arrival of these known events, these unavoidable end of days. But to say such things is false. It a misunderstanding, a misinterpretation, a mis-speech which has promulgated through our history. Perhaps it is only a small thing, an inconsequential deviance, but there is no such prophecy. There is no handsomely scribed poem, no rhyming lines that foretell your story. It is all legend and lore, orally-transferred tales which developed, intrinsically replicated, and gained social momentum. The Elves at the dawn of our race, the _Cuivienyarna_, told the story first. They traced the journey of the Elves in Middle-Earth as the path of a lonely star across the night sky – and perhaps, if there is any prophecy, it is theirs."

"I don't understand."

"Can you not appreciate the unbelievable? You are a reality entirely constructed from our legend, from elven imagination. Perhaps we could never know if you would come, but you have; you have arrived here, and in the very fashion that the lore foretold. Your presence makes real that which we have so long feared: the winter of the Elves in Middle Earth is upon us. You demand every day, with your mere presence, that Galadriel leave her ancestral home in Lothlórien. A legend sprung to life!" he cried, and he looked troubled. Aila could not tear her eyes away from his face, could not move her eyes from his lips as they formed words she could hardly understand. Mere legend? "Can you not understand why she might not welcome you? Can you see that her distrust is only grief?"

Aila could feel the tears welling in her eyes, the moisture blurred her vision until Haldir beside her was only a vague shape, and she only knew that he remained by the softness of his tunic sleeve beneath her fingers, and the strength of his long hand over hers. "Then why are you so kind to me?" she asked blindly, stopping in their path and turning to face the Lórien-elf. She could not see his face through the salted confusion in her eyes, but his fingers remained steadfastly on hers. "Why would you fight so that I may remain here in Lórien, when I would force you from your home – when my presence is such a haunting torture of the future sundering from your beautiful homeland?" Haldir said nothing now in response; perhaps all his words were spent. His fingers dropped from her hand, and Aila was immediately afraid that he would leave her, but as quickly as his fingers had left her hand, she felt his soft touch on her cheek, the backs of his fingers light and insubstantial on her skin. But his touch was not comforting to Aila. Rather, she asked, "And why do you touch me so tenderly when I bear only the promise of sorrow?"

Her tears crested her cheek and as the liquid seeped from her eyes, Aila's vision cleared, and she saw Haldir in time to watch as he lifted both of his hands to her face, cupping her jaw in his hands. He raised a slow thumb to wipe the droplets of tears that stood on her cheeks. "Come," he whispered, emphasizing the single syllable, pressing his lips together, vibrating almost imperceptibly with the utterance. Aila only noticed then that his upper lip was slightly larger than his lower lip. "There is something here which I would like to share with you."

Aila had not noticed before that a long, silvery rope ladder hung from a nearby tree. She stood with Haldir near the crest of a small rise, a hill in the forest, and the tree from which proudly swung the ladder was near its apex. Haldir's hand quickly arrested the minute movement of the ladder and he gestured that she should climb ahead of him. Wiping the remnant of tears from her eyes, Aila obediently began to climb, wondering what could await her at its top. It was a long climb, but the physical strain allowed Aila to avoid the thoughts running rampant and unrestrained through her mind. A legend sprung from the earth? A pretty story with little expectation? But she ignored these questions. The answer lay at the top of the ladder, she told herself, again and again. The answer lay at the top.

The ladder finally led to a broad _talan_, so high in the branches of the tree that Aila felt dizzy looking down again as she watched Haldir gracefully gain the wooden platform. There was no fence or guard around the edge of the wide _talan_, which Aila noted with not a little nervousness. But even as she looked to the edge of the flet, her eyes moved outward to the scene beyond the tree which unfolded before her: a broad and expansive landscape, the golden leaves and silver wood of Lórien spread out before her to the South, meandering and lessening until she could only see flat land to the horizon. In the center of this flowed the mighty river Anduin, which was joined far below her by cold Celebrant, effectively splitting the countryside in two, East and West. To the West, there loomed the southern peaks of the Misty Mountains, and over these epic zeniths crested the light of the fading sun, setting in the West, marking her last evening in Lothlórien. She moved to sit, placing herself near to the leading edge of the _talan_ but still within a distance that felt safe for her. Haldir sat wordlessly at her side as she stared at the scene he had brought her before. The sun's dying rays reached across the sky, erupting from bright blue sky that hovered above the mountains, reaching with tendrils of red and orange and golden yellow to the inky, grape-juice darkness that grew out of the East. The light was a vibrant, colorful crown for the horizon, washing the wild land with a fading glow.

And as Aila's eyes greedily took in the gorgeous view, its beauty repairing unknown hurts in her soul, her body felt alien to her and inconsequential. Her heart turned over in her chest, beating erratically, slowing down. She inhaled deeply to steady herself, to remind herself that she still dwelt within a body, though her heart swam in the depths of the Anduin below, and soared between the rising crests of the Misty Mountains. Each steadied breath pulled cool air into her lungs, and Aila thought there was a taste of spring, of new life, on the air; an intangible sweetness, a fresh flavor on her tongue. An overwhelming desire took her: her only thought was that this place, this scene, _this moment_ was precious to her. As she had manufactured memories in her House, here, now, a viable and vibrant memory was waiting on the tip of her tongue, taunting and tempting her only to reach out and grasp it. She had the unavoidable notion that this moment was meant to be crucial and meaningful, that there was something important she was meant to find her, and she turned, determinedly, to Haldir: to find it.

His pale eyes were watching her, an expression of pleasure and satisfaction on his face as he witnessed her awe. He smiled, lips parting a little to expose white teeth. After a moment, he turned his face again to survey the scene, his movement indicating that Aila should do the same, which she readily did, turning her gaze back on the rolling foothills which grew from Fangorn Forest, and the sandy western banks of the river.

"Here, in this place, you can see far from the living land of Lothlórien – far away, south of the land which I call my home, the Golden Wood. Out there," he said slowly, "there is wilderness and danger. Out there ... that is where you and your companions will travel. South by boat, and then East – or West." Aila heard the sorrowful tenor in his deep voice, a barely perceptive unsteadying of his normally dulcet tones. "I brought you here to show you this view, so that you may know always when you travel that I am here," his eyes were wide and insistent, though he still stared out along the flowing water of Anduin. "Know that I shall watch until you and your Company disappear over that far horizon." His hand found hers, tightening over her fingers. "And know that here I will wait, watching always for your return back over it."

Her heart flipped over in her chest, moved and overwhelmed and inundated with emotion and meaning and reckless thoughts. Was this the moment? she wondered. Is this the memory she would hold in her heart – is this the moment she will recall whenever she thought of this place, this tall, noble tree of Lórien? They were both silent now, watching the sunset over the darkening land, hands clenched. Stars slowly began to emerge in the deep lavender of the sky, until the sun's light had fully submerged beneath the oppression of the far mountains, sapping the last of its light and warmth from the land.

Aila's last day in Lórien had come to a close.

It might have been hours, Aila could not tell, but it was dark and there was an almost unpleasant chill in the air when Haldir spoke again, his words growing quietly and organically from the night-sounds of the trees. "Can you hear, now, the music of Lothlórien?" And so Aila closed her eyes, straining her ears to listen to the rhythm of Lórien. She heard the familiar rustling of leaves as the soft breeze moved ever through the tall mallorn-trees, and she heard the tiny, scampering feet of woodland creatures, and she heard the gentle creaking of silver boughs, but none of these held any rhythm, though her mind was desperate to contrive one. She opened her eyes again and told Haldir that she could not hear the song. He shook his head slowly, and indicated that she should listen once more. "Be patient," he cautioned, holding her hand within his, "be patient," he whispered.

And so she closed her eyes once more, intently picking out each of the forest's sound. Again, she heard the wind in the leaves, the faint rustling and crackling of golden flora, she heard the chatter of squirrels in the tree not far from where they sat, she heard the flapping and calling of birds on the wing, and she heard the voice of the rushing river rising up to her from far below. These things she heard and she focused on them: voice of the air, voice of the water, voice of the earth, and voice of life ... they were each comingled and effervescent in the living land of Lothlórien. But none of these things held any rhythm, none of these things were single notes in the creation of a greater whole, so still she listened. She heard Haldir's soft intake of breath and each slow exhalation, and she realized she had matched her breathing to his. She even heard the soft rustling of her own hair as the wind shifted it about her shoulders, echoing the movement of the nearby golden leaves. And then ... before Aila could describe or pinpoint what it was that she heard, she felt an odd sense of déjà vu, and she heard a familiar note in the air. Focusing on Haldir's advice, she remained quiet and still, patiently hearing the melody that the forest sang to her – for, indeed, there was a song, a melody, being sung by the earth. It's cadence was so unhurried, so intentional – so eternal – that it could not be heard unless one listened deliberately. But now Aila heard it; she heard the song of Lothlórien. Song of Middle Earth.

Lastly, she heard a deep tenor, a quiet bass, thrumming and underlying the melody in the trees. It rose up in her ears, each drumbeat shook her internally, resonated with vibration within her chest and down to her fingertips; it was both inside and external to her, providing the bridge from herself to the world around her. As she realized what the sound of the drumbeat was, her eyes flew open in surprise and she stared at Haldir in front of her. She was listening to her heartbeat, and his, matched and beating as one, intertwined and essential to the singing of Lórien.

Haldir began to lean forward toward her, and Aila's chest erupted, her heart exploding in a flurry of frenzied activity and leapt into her throat, choking her breathing. But he only leaned his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, and remained still. Relaxing again, she mimicked him, closing her eyes and leaning forward into him, memorizing the feeling of the _talan_ beneath her, the gentle wind through her hair, the caress of Haldir's warm breath on her face. She thought immediately of his upper lip, sensuously full, and the thought drove her mad. She pulled her face away uncertainly.

"Shall we return?" he asked quietly, his words barely formed from the soft breath that constituted them. His lips barely moved as he spoke.

"No," responded Aila quickly, before she understood what she wanted. "I do not wish to leave this place yet."

. . .

The repeated and insistent clearing of a throat woke Aila, though her immediate concern was not the noise but the stiffness of her body and the aching in her side from sleeping on the hard wooden flet. Her cheek was pressed against soft fabric, and her eyes flew open as she realized that she lay on the _talan_ still with Haldir, her head resting against his shoulder, his arms loosely wrapped around her. And, looking up in embarrassed horror, she saw another Elf, clad in grey mail and a white cloak, standing before them on the platform.

"The Lady Galadriel requests your return," he said slowly and pointedly, looking both to herself and to Haldir. "Of your hasty and immediate return. Aearvenel – your Company awaits."

. . .

_Ci maer _= Are you well?_  
Boe?_ = Is it necessary?_  
Ae 'iestog_ = If you wish


	24. Farewell to Lórien

Author's Note: Okay, I'd like to address some comments (which are all wonderful, so keep them coming!) In response to adrenalinejunkiegurl – I think it is fair criticism that Aila seems to have an unnaturally powerful pull for elvish men. Part of it is because, well, it's fan-fiction and it's fun. Mostly, though, Aila is the Light Bearer, which gives her quite a bit of celebrity and sets her up for some serious, and frequent, elvish courting. I think it would be a bit absurd if Elves were not always vying for her attention. Maybe it's more important to remember that Haldir lavishes these attentions on her, but really he hardly knows her (this will be addressed in the story in the next few chapters). To the GlidingOne – that actually breaks my heart that Haldir is married. I try to stick to canon as closely as I can, so I apologize for the oversight. I did my research to make sure Glorfindel was safe to use, but must have fallen into the false comfort that Haldir is a favorite among fan-fiction readers & writers. For the sake of this story (since it's too late now), let's all pretend that Haldir isn't married.

Your reviews are so appreciated, as always!

. . .

Ch. 24 Farewell to Lórien

Legolas eyes were turned warily on them as Haldir and Aila appeared again, together, in the wide pavilion at the heart of the golden city of the Galadhrim. Aila could see, with only the cursory glance that she spared to the Elf, that his mind worked rapidly to contrive the reason and meaning of her joint return with Haldir – after having disappeared with him the evening before. Every fiber in her body tried to keep herself from meeting his gaze, but she could feel, as a burning on her face, that his eyes were constantly turned on her. It was lucky, then, that Isgwen stood not far from the edge of the pavilion, at the base of Aila's tree, and the elf-maiden's hand waved hastily at Aila, beckoning her to follow the Elf. Acquiescing as quickly as she could, Aila followed Isgwen up the stair-ladder, into her House and away from Legolas' piercing eye.

Once in her lofted house, Aila was able to change from her dress into traveling clothes; thick, sturdy leggings and a long shirt and tunic. She pulled on, also, her well-worn boots which Arwen had given her. They felt comfortable and were well broken in, but their thick material felt restrictive and obtrusive to her after a month in Lórien in only light shoes, or otherwise bare-footed. After dressing, she hefted the bag which Isgwen had packed for her – a pack surprisingly light, though Aila had no doubt that the Elf had packed it well and full.

Nodding to the pack, Isgwen said, "I have packed also a small book for you, and a pen – so that you may continue your practice in our tongue." Aila thanked her for this, glad to have at least some entertainment during their journey, but she was distracted from her thoughts by a sly look which fell over Isgwen's face. After knowing the Elf only as a solemn and no-nonsense type, she was surprised by Isgwen's mischievous smile. "Perhaps," she began slowly, drawing the words from her lungs with pretty lips. "Legolas will be patient enough to practice with you."

Though Aila did not immediately appreciate the mention of Legolas' name – though she couldn't quite pinpoint the source of the apparent guilt his eyes had unknowingly burdened her with – the edges of her eyes tightened as she looked at the elf-maiden before her. The corner of her mouth began to pull upward in a lop-sided and unsure smile. "Do you suggest my Sindarin is poor?" Aila could not maintain the look of mock-offense which she was trying to contort her features into, and a smile began developing on her lips, pulling into a broad grin.

Isgwen returned her wide smile for but a moment, and knit her eyebrows together in an expression of mock-disbelief and haughtiness. "_Ú-agoren!_"

"_Alae!_" cried Aila in response. "Could it be that somber Isgwen has told a joke?" A wave of appreciation for the Elf rose up in her chest and Aila found her recent bout of sentimentality returned. Her smile faded, though her eyes still shone with the pleasure of Isgwen's newly discovered humor. "I shall miss you, Isgwen," she said quietly, watching the Elf's face carefully. And, for good effect, said, "_N'i lû ir a-goveninc__." _

"Abysmal," laughed the Elf, shaking her head slightly, but her smile belied the criticism, and it remained bright and broad, illuminating a pale and beautiful face. "_No gelin a velthin idh raid gîn__." _And the two stood for some minutes more, both memorizing the others' presence, not as Light Bearer and Galthellim, but as two women who had found appreciation for each other. Perhaps even as friends. After a few moments, Isgwen reached out to place a thin, comforting hand on Aila's shoulder, and she beckoned, "Now, come. Or I fear your companions will depart without you."

"_La-la_! Another joke!" But she followed Isgwen's lead down the stairs into the relative openness of the clearing below.

Aila was surprised to see that the group waiting in the pavilion had grown significantly: Lórien-elves had descended from the tree-tops to bid farewell to the members of the Fellowship and to wish them well on their journey. A familiar knot was forming in the pit of Aila's stomach, and the nervousness which she had felt in Rivendell at the start of the quest had returned, though, thankfully, only at a fraction of its previous strength.

The collected Elves presented gifts of clothing and food to the Company, and Aila watched breathlessly as Sam was presented with rope. ("Rope!" he cried happily, passing its silken length lovingly through his fingers.) And a familiar scene began to develop near to Aila, where Elves had presented Gimli the Dwarf with gifts of _lembas_, which the Dwarf did not immediately comprehend. She laughed alongside the Elves as they cried out, with high and keening laughter, "No more, no more!" as the Dwarf devoured an entire cake of the sweet honey way-bread. "You have eaten enough already for a long day's march." To her delight and satisfaction, she listened as Gimli gave the Elves high praise for their gifts, and she saw that he licked his lips for a long time afterward, even picking crumbs from the dark tangle of his beard.

The Elves then unwrapped packages of clothes which they had brought for the travelers and began to draw long grey-green cloaks from them. An Elf spoke out as he reached out to dress Aragorn in the gifted cloak, the fabric flared attractively as it was flung around the shoulders of the tall Man. "High you are indeed in the Lady's favor! For she herself and her maidens wove this stuff; and never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people." Others stepped forward now, each to dress a member of the Company in the silken cloaks, fastened by the pendant of a leaf, bright green and veined with silver. It was Haldir that stepped forward to place the cloak on Aila's shoulders, and his eyes had a bright look of sorrow and regret. The feeling of his fingers against the hollow of her throat as he fastened the leaf pendant, slowly and delicately, did not quiet the roiling nervousness that sat in her stomach. He smoothed his palms against her shoulders, straightening and arranging the warm fabric, smiling placidly. Aila tried not to meet his gaze. After an eternity, he stepped back again.

"I am sent now to be your guide again," said Haldir to the members of the Company, and Aila saw that Legolas stared at the Lórien-elf with not a little distaste. "News travels from the northern fences that vapor fills the Dimrill Dale, and the mountains are troubled. If any of you had thought of returning northwards to your homes, you would not have been able to pass that way. But come! Your path now goes south."

Now is the moment, thought Aila, as she lifted her pack to depart from the fair forest of Lothlórien. Her sadness overwhelmed her anxiety and she felt hauntingly peaceful and hollow. Enchanted singing began behind: a slow, mournful song, and she looked back to see Isgwen at the head of the _Galthellim_, all twenty-three sisters singing a sad song of her departure. Sælrieth, Aearvenel, leaving their land – would she return? Aila didn't know. Her apprehension returned.

Some of the Elves walked with them through the empty paths of Lórien, though Aila could hear many more voices above in the trees, murmuring and singing, and these voices floated lethargically to her ears. Now that she was leaving the Golden Wood, she felt as though the entire experience were surreal and other-worldly, and she could not grasp at anything substantial or mundane as she almost blindly followed the group forward on the path that would lead her south from the safety and beauty of Lórien. She stepped quickly to walk between Legolas and Gimli, and the Dwarf grunted a crude acknowledgement of her. Aila could see that he was engaged in memorizing each of his final steps in the beautiful land of the Lórien-elves. Legolas smiled sadly, as though he, too, regretted that they had to leave Lothlórien. And he also reached out to adjust the clasp that secured her elven cloak, twisting the small leaf as though it had sat crookedly, though Aila was sure it had already been quite straight by Haldir's attention. The tips of his fingers brushed against her throat and she involuntarily closed her eyes, though her mind was blank and the nervousness in her stomach had momentarily subsided.

A great many boats were moored at a small dock, formed of white stones and white wood. Three grey boats had been prepared for the Company, and so they stowed their goods in these and made ready to set sail for the south. Boromir looked anxious to be off, but every other member of the Company had heavy-lidded eyes, unable to leave the serenity of the land so easily.

A great and elegant swan-ship was then seen sailing down the river toward the dock where they stood, its fierce golden eye seemed to be turned on them and its wings were raised as though ready for flight. From this ship, they heard the deep, crisp voice of the Lady Galadriel, sad and sweet:

I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:  
Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.  
Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,  
And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.  
Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,  
In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.  
There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,  
While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.  
O Lórien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;  
The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.  
O Lórien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore  
And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.  
But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,  
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

"We have come to bid our last farewell," Galadriel said to them as she disembarked from the ship, gliding effortlessly from ship to land. "And to speed you with blessings from our land." Aila could not hear the words that the elf-lady spoke, but rather was engaged in the churning of her own thoughts. She thought of the words which Galadriel had sung, and she wondered that the song was not meant for her. What ship, indeed, could bear Galadriel away from her home? What ship would bear the Lórien-elves from their Wood and into the West? And Aila thought she had never heard a description of the ocean so deadly and hauntingly delicate as _sundering seas_. It was herself, after all, that signaled the winter of the Elves in Middle Earth, and of Lórien. Her son was to be that ship which bore the Elves away.

"We bid you now to a parting feast," said Celeborn, after his Lady had finished speaking, and the deep tenor of his voice brought Aila from her reverie. "Here between the flowing waters that will bear you far from Lórien."

They settled down upon the grass in a wide park, shouldered on either side by the sounds of the two rushing rivers, flowing loudly and swiftly, as though anxious to bear the Company away. To their left was Anduin, the Great River, and the Silverlode to the right. These two mighty rivers joined some few miles from where they sat, nearly at the tip of the arrow-head that formed the land of Lórien. There was an empty look in Frodo's eyes, and Aila saw that he both ate and drank little; rather, his eyes were turned solely to Galadriel, as though her image were the only sustenance he needed or desired. Aragorn, too, paid little mind to anything but the Lord and Lady of the Lórien-elves, though he made a stronger effort to put the sweet food to his lips. Aila ate and drank and tried to memorize the feeling and flavor of the food on her tongue, and she thought darkly of the endless days of _lembas_ ahead, delicious though it might be.

Though she had half-expected that Haldir would sit with her, it was still a surprise to her when he sat close beside her, drinking deep from his cup as he alighted on the grass. The way he had positioned himself seemed to purposely set them apart from the other members of the Company. "I would be remiss," he began slowly, "if I did not endeavor once more to plead that you stay in fair Lothlórien." His eyes were wide and he looked searchingly at her face, so she gathered her courage and stared back firmly into the shallows of his ice-colored eyes.

"I would be remiss to remain," she replied. "I cannot stay in Lórien. I have made my decision, and I beg that you respect it."

"And you cannot be swayed?"

"I remain firm," she said again, slowly drawing out the last consonant so that her lips were pressed decisively together, as though to illustrate her point. "Already, it is too late."

"Then I cannot disrespect you by pressing any further, though you know my desires." His expression was mournful and Aila thought it looked entirely out of place in the bright midday sun that shone through the trees of the forest. The sun's rays cast a golden light on his face and he did not close his eyes against the intensity of the light, but rather allowed it to glitter against the pale color of his skin and eyes. Aila wasn't sure if she was holding her breath or if the oxygen had somehow been stolen from her lungs, but she found herself struggling to breath, wondering, yet again, whether she should remain in Lothlórien.

And even as these tortured, familiar thoughts gained the primary function of her brain, she heard a voice, deep and clear: "_Come with me._" But her eyes assured her that it was not Haldir who had spoken those words, though he stilled looked at her sorrowfully, his lips pressed in a deep frown. Breaking her gaze from his, Aila looked around to see the Lady Galadriel looking pointedly at her, her bright blue eyes fixed on Aila's face. A disconcerted feeling fell over Aila; never had the Elf spoken to her within the recesses of her own mind, though Aila knew the Elf could easily read her thoughts and memories. She wasn't sure what excuse she had made to Haldir that allowed her to rise unattended from her position on the grass, and she wondered that not all the eyes of the Company were fixed on her – though if they were, she did not notice. Aila retreated quickly from the clearing between the rivers and sought some refuge in the nearby silver mallorn-trees that formed the southernmost expanse of Lórien. She was only there a few moments when she turned and found that Galadriel had followed her. The Elf stood, tall and imposing, untouchable and inaccessible in her beauty and wisdom; deep thought worked tirelessly behind the dark eyes.

"You are aware," the Elf began with little endeavor at introduction, "that each member of your companionship was presented, upon his first arrival in my city, with a choice: a choice between that which he greatly desired, or fear and shadow."

Of course, Aila knew. She knew that Galadriel had offered each individual a thing which might have deterred him from his path, which might have tempted him from continuing to aid Frodo, which might have turned him aside from duty and purpose. Each member had won this battle of will. "I do not wish to hear their desires," said Aila quickly, feeling voyeuristic even at the suggestion, but she had misunderstood the Elf's intent.

"I wish to tell you no more than you wish to hear it, _Calarchol._" The way that the Elf said this name, this oldest of Aila's epithets, was dark and twisted, emphasizing the rolling and hardened consonants. Galadriel's eyes flashed as she said it. "I am here, now, to give you a similar choice." This statement froze Aila where she stood, and she wondered that inside she felt incredibly hollow and bereft of any substance. She wondered what challenge Galadriel could lay before her, and to what purpose? Was it not Galadriel's desire that Aila continue with the Fellowship? Would she work now to tempt Aila only to punish her betrayal should she choose wrong? So many thoughts flashed through Aila's consciousness, half-formed and wild, but she was saved from any further speculation, almost mercifully, by the Lady herself. "I have seen you often in the company of a march-warden, Haldir, and also frequently in my mind's eye I have seen the two of you together," she said slowly, purposefully. Her velvet voice was low and held some delicacy of challenge. "So I say this to you now: choose him, and you may stay. If Haldir is your match, then you must remain here with him, in Lórien. This is your choice."

If the threat of a choice had astonished Aila, then the content of the choice itself was surprising and stalled her every thought. Was this the greatest desire in her heart, which Galadriel believed would challenge Aila's intention and dedication to the Company? And if it were that Galadriel could see deeper in to Aila's heart that she could herself, did it mean that she should, indeed, select the Lórien-elf that had showered her with such attention and affection since her arrival in the fair forest? It did not calm her that Galadriel's eyes did not waver from their piercing stare, as the Elf watched Aila internally debate, no doubt listening to her struggle. There was no hint of the proper response in the Elf's beautiful and elegant mien. Aila felt pressured to make a response, knowing that she must choose at that moment the path of her future. And did that future feature Haldir? Was he the Match she was so endeavored upon to choose? There was, however, a small pit of rational tenacity in the back of her mind that slowly grew and gnawed at her moment of philosophical crisis. It voraciously tore into the terror and panic that enveloped her mind and quieted her enough so that she could reason with herself. She had only been in Lórien a month, after all, hardly enough time to even have made such a momentous decision among the short-lived Men, and seemed even more absurd a time span amongst the eternal Elves.

Finally, Aila responded, her voice firm and strong, though she only felt weak and drawn. "I am not ready to choose."

She felt redeemed and vindicated, then, that a look of satisfaction overtook Galadriel's soft features. "Then you have chosen wisely. Perhaps Haldir is your Match, but only time will tell," she said imperiously, allowing her voice to draw out the last, as was her habit. "I offer you now a word of caution: whatever Elf you choose, you must be sure to choose wisely and surely. For if your choice is poor, you doom us all to destruction. Choose wrong, and the Fate of the Elves is in death."

. . .

Galadriel's words still haunted Aila as the Company readied to finally depart from Lothlórien. Celeborn and Galadriel were presenting each with their final farewell gifts, each lovingly presented and wondrously accepted. To Aragorn, Galadriel gave a beautifully wrought sheath, spelled to protect his sword from stain and defeat. She gave him also a token of Arwen, Even-Star of the Elves, a symbol of hope and love. Aila did not watch as Boromir was given a pretty silver belt for his sword, or when similarly golden belts were given to Merry and Pippin – her mind was overwhelmed with the choice she had been given and the parting beauty of Lórien, which reached out with ethereal tendrils to tempt her to remain. She watched only absently as Legolas was presented with a long bow, as was used by archers of the Galadhrim, and, though she did not register the loving touch, she saw that he stroked the long bow with delicacy and awe, barely alighting his fingers to touch the strong wood. And she did not hear the words exchanged as a box of dirt from Galadriel's garden was passed from Elf to Hobbit. She herself was given the sword of Gandalf, Glamdring; it was in a new sheath, adjusted so that she could carry both this sword and her own, Núadin, on her back rather than her hip. And though it should have moved her, she could not listen to Gimli's request for Galadriel's hair, nor could she listen purposefully to Frodo as he was given the light of Eärendil in a small vial, with Galadriel's final word of caution: "Remember Galadriel and her mirror!"

And so the members of the Company loaded themselves with heavy hearts onto the three grey elven boats, and forlornly launched into the river, swept away by the water which would quickly bring them from the beautiful heart and living wood of Lothlórien.

. . .

_Ú-agoren_ = That is false

_Alae _= Behold

_N'i lû ir a-goveninc _Until we meet again

_No gelin a velthin idh raid gîn_May your ways be green and golden

_La-la_Ha-ha


	25. On the Road Again

Author's Note: Enjoy. I have a feeling that you are all going to like this one.

. . .

Ch. 25 On the Road Again

Any sight of Lothlórien had long since passed out of their view, and the cheer of the Company quickly fell away with it. The borders of the river were still bounded by tall trees, but these southern trees held neither the beauty or magnificence of the mighty mallorn-trees. Their anorexic trunks were grey-skinned, as though starved and leeched of color, and their boughs hung limp and lifeless, devoid of the merry golden leaves which had canopied the fair city of the Galadhrim. The water running around their boats was brown and murky, and drops would fly up randomly to wet Aila's clothing and face. She sat in the third boat with Legolas and Gimli; with the three of them their boat sat lower in the water than either of the others, and so she was splashed with the water broken by the bow in front of her. The grey skin of the wooden boat faded into the muddy water, which lapped up onto pale, mossy shores. The entire scene was so devoid of color, in juxtaposition to the previous month she had spent in Lothlórien, that it depressed her and sank her heart further into her stomach. She cast a hopeful glance back again, unthinkingly trying to catch a last, redeeming glance of the fair Wood, perhaps to see the bright green of the grass and the deep-spun gold of the leaves. But the scene behind her was as drained of vibrancy as that in front of her. Legolas saw her look and understood, and so he lifted the corner of his mouth in a half-hearted smile. He could not manage any more, for he as well was affected by the loss of Lórien. He could not know, then, that his look had indeed comforted Aila, for she had unwittingly gained the vibrancy and color which she had been craving: his bright, broad, deep blue eyes sated her need. She thought their color was like the ultramarine of the oceans, as one would see the earth from space; and for but a moment, she was poetically adrift in a lone space shuttle, looking at the entirety of existence in his eyes.

Between them, Gimli sighed heavily, fluttering his lips and gazing darkly at the dismal landscape around them, and his sudden exasperation roused Aila from her clichéd reverie. "I have looked the last upon that which was fairest," he proclaimed emphatically, nodding to Aila and turning his head so that Legolas could hear him. The Elf's eyes were turned on the dwarf cheerlessly. "Henceforward I will call nothing fair, unless it be her gift," the Dwarf continued, placing his hand upon his breast, where, underneath his shirt of mail, Galadriel's gift was hidden away. His eyelids were heavy over downcast eyes. "Tell me, Legolas," the Dwarf cried out suddenly, his eyes flying open and turning suddenly to the grey, misty sky. The tenor of his voice trembled in misery. "Why did I come on this quest? Little did I know where the chief peril lay! Truly Elrond spoke, saying that we could not foresee what we might meet upon our road. Torment in the dark was the danger that I feared, and it did not hold me back. But I would not have come," he said decidedly, nodding his head in emphasis, "had I known the danger of light and joy. Now I have taken my worst wound in this parting, even if I were to go this night straight to the Dark Lord. Alas for Gimli son of Glóin!"

"Nay!" replied Legolas quickly, his eyes were tight and his eyebrows were knit over his eyes in sharp dissent. "Alas for us all!" And his expression shifted from denial to unfathomable sorrow. "And for all that walk the world in these after-days. For such is the way of it: to find and lose, as it seems to those whose boat is on the running stream. But I count you blessed, Gimli son of Glóin: for your loss you suffer of your own free will, and you might have chosen otherwise." Gimli grumbled. "But," continued Legolas pointedly, smiling weakly at the Dwarf, "you have not forsaken your companions, and the least reward that you shall have is that the memory of Lothlórien shall remain ever clear and unstained in your heart, and shall neither fade nor grow stale." The Elf stayed the motion of the paddle he held, and reached a comforting hand forward to place it on the Dwarf's shoulder. "For you, at least, have looked upon that of beauty, and held it," he said, emphasizing the last fragment. "Some must live without beholding that which they desire, or without the faintest notion of its realization." His eyes leapt up again to Aila, and they shared another gaze, though she did not understand it and so she could not understand the grief and hesitation that was written across the Elf's face.

"Beautiful words," she said, and smiled grimly, such that her pursed lips barely curved upward. "But all such comfort within them is cold to Gimli, I am sure. Mere memory, or fantasy, is not what the heart desires."

"Indeed," replied Gimli, nodding to Aila, "memory is only a mirror, though it be as clear as Kheled-zâram. Or so says the heart of Gimli the Dwarf. Elves may see things otherwise. Indeed I have heard that for them memory is more like to the waking world than to a dream. Not so for Dwarves."

"And even so," Legolas responded, and Aila thought she had never seen his features contorted into such a look of melancholy before. "Still you have held your wish in your palm. Memory, however dim, is far better than even the richest fantasy."

"Let us talk no more of it," said Gimli, watching his friend tentatively. "Look to the boat! She is too low in the water with all three of us, and the Great River is swift. I do not wish to drown my grief in cold water!"

Aila turned forward again to watch the running of the river water against the prow of the small boat. And though she could hear the rhythmic dipping of Legolas' paddle, she felt that the Elf's eyes were still turned on her for a long time after their conversation had ended.

. . .

The banks on either side of the water slid languidly past, but Aila did not remark their passing. Her eyes were sullenly fixed on the grey-green water that rippled past the grey sides of their boat, its cool glassy surface undisturbed by the fishing of birds, or the movement of fish beneath its surface. The river seemed dead and empty, save for their small party, floating south according to the river's whim. They had spent a few days floating down the river, and Aragorn did not seem rushed to hurry their progress so he allowed the river's current to pull them without aid of their paddles or strength. Their journey continued late into the evening, hours after the setting sun, and they were usually upon the river again before the sun rose again in the east.

Aila was bored. There was not much to distract herself from her thoughts, and the substance of her mind's wandering was persistent and overwhelming and unavoidable. The scenery did not give much to attract her eyes, and as she sat in the boat, there was no physical activity to focus herself on or to distract the direction of her thoughts, and so her mind turned inescapably along the same tired, worn paths.

First, she thought of the choice which Galadriel had given her: the words the elf-lady had spoken had haunted Aila's progress down the river and had been an eerie specter in her fitful dreams as she rested at night. It was not only that Aila wondered if she should have accepted Galadriel's choice – that she should have chosen Haldir as her Match and remained in Lórien – but also that this should have been the choice which Galadriel had given her. Was Haldir truly the greatest desire in her heart? Had Galadriel been able to see something within herself that even Aila could not grasp or understand? Was Haldir the choice that she so preferred? But Aila couldn't comprehend, she couldn't fathom, that she had already unconsciously decided on her Match, and that her choice was Haldir. Was he so preferable over the other Elves she knew? Was he her preference over Glorfindel, who so staunchly and solemnly affected her friendship and care? Or over Legolas, who sat only a few feet behind her on the small boat, and whose steady hand and close friendship had sustained her courage, and her self, when others had failed? And she blushed when she thought this, as though she had spoken aloud and the entire Company had heard her.

And each time she thought of Haldir, she found herself automatically turning around to regard the direction from which they had come, wondering if Haldir could still see the tiny pinpricks of the boats on the river from where he sat on his lofty _talan_. And each time that she looked back to the north, she noticed that Legolas' eyes were on her, and when their eyes met briefly she felt a pang of guilt deep in her stomach and she wondered if Legolas could guess the reason for her constant rearward attention.

Aila's mind also drifted constantly to Lórien, and she, surprised, found that her memories had a distinct flavor, or a tinged and sepia toned coating, and it did not take her long to perceive the reason for these changes. Though the scenery that fled past her vision along the river was uninspiring, or perhaps because it was uninspiring, it did afford her clarity of thought which she hadn't realized she had lost while in Lórien. The Golden Wood's decadent beauty and overwhelming elegance had clouded her vision, distracted her thoughts, and had generated and inspired an emotional response which Aila presently wondered had been truly hers at all. Indeed, she called into question each of her interactions and experiences in Lothlórien, and wondered at the veracity of her feelings in each. She could not deny that she felt an irrepressible pull to Haldir, and that she had formed an intense liking of him while she was in Galadriel's forest; but now she could rationally understand that she had barely known him – in fact, she had only seen him on the few days that book-ended her month in Lórien. And even had she met him everyday of that month, it still would not be enough to manufacture the strong feelings which she had thought she had for him while sitting on the lofty _talan_ and listening to the undeniable song of the forest. Had Lothlórien's beauty, its incontestable and devastating splendor, tricked her? Had it effected within her emotions that she had not herself organically produced?

And even to this last thought, she could not deny that she felt she had some proof of it. After all, the ephemeral lights of the stars through the trees and the musical tinkling of a fountain had caused her to thrust herself on Legolas, and even again the next night on Haldir – could she deny now that the forest had indeed inspired her to these actions, rather than her own attraction and feelings of regard? She stared long and hard at the water that flowed past her, and decided, at length, that she could not.

After all, she knew already that nature could have a significant effect on her, and, if truth be told, upon everyone she knew. Was it not a glorious, intoxicating drug when the sun finally shone and the weather warmed in the spring after a long, cold, and dark winter? She herself had always likened the long summer sun in the far north to a drug, which effused through your system and inspired even the most indoorsy-types to seek refuge, solace, and joy out of doors. Yes, Aila could remember turning her face to the sun and contentedly closing her eyes against its warm and jubilant light in March, at its first sustained appearance. These were some of her favorite memories of Boston. Would it be so different that Lothlórien had likewise influenced her thoughts and the direction of her emotions? Would it be so far off base to guess that the affection she had manufactured was more due to the influence of her surroundings than the content of her interactions and affection for her company?

The nondescript scenery passed, and Aila thought this thinning batch of trees looked similar to the thinning batch of trees they had passed hours ago. The sun sank lower in the west.

Indistinct muttering broke Aila free from the oppression of her thoughts, but did not relieve her of the insecurity and pain in her heart. She turned her head aside to see Boromir with a cold sweat on his brow, and his eyebrows set low over darkened eyes. His lips were moving rapidly in an indecipherable speech, and he wielded his paddle to maneuver his small boat closer to that of Aragorn's, which held Frodo and Sam. Merry and Pippin, who shared Boromir's boat, looked to Aila with alarm and confusion. And instead of distracting Aila from her thoughts, Boromir's dark look only brought her to the final worry which had been cycling through her thoughts since their boats had launched from Lothlórien's grassy shore.

Aila knew that Boromir's death was near at hand. Each paddle-stroke, each inch the river's current pulled them forward, brought his doom nearer. It brought, also, an impossible decision for Aila – one that gnawed at the edges of her stomach, pulled her heart down out of her chest, collapsed her lungs with pressure, and bent her back under its strain. It seemed an easy decision to make, but Aila's worry wore at her. Could she allow Boromir to die?

Or, even, should she? She had allowed Gandalf's Fall, and her inactivity had broken her heart as surely as his staff had broken asunder. But Gandalf's death was a different beast entirely from Boromir's impending doom. Gandalf's sword, which rested on the floor of the boat at her feet beside her own sword Núadin, reminded her that Gandalf's death was not permanent. Boromir's, however, would be. The Gondor Man would die, and he would not be resurrected. He would not be returned to Middle Earth. He would die, and be dead. And so with each passing moment, Aila wondered if she could prevent his death, or even that she should. What repercussions would his survival have on the Company, and the eventual fate of the Fellowship? Would his return to Gondor, alive, prevent the crowning of Aragorn as King? Would his survival prevent the mental break of his father, Denethor, and the steward's attempt on his own son's life? (And surely, wouldn't this be a good thing to prevent, at least for Faramir's sake?) But there were too many moving parts to the story, and Aila's imprecise memory was frustrating to her. So she spent many hours in thought, chewing on the broken skin of her lower lip, biting and tearing away what little nails she had down to their beds, and knitting her eyebrows together worriedly as she stared at the flowing water.

. . .

The Company was settled in a loose circle, near to the shore of the river and their sleek elven boats which rested on the rocky beach of the fast-flowing river. They had eaten sparingly from their supplies; their food supplies were quickly waning and Aila did not look with excitement upon the leaf-wrapped _lembas_ which sat, waiting, in their packs for the time when the rest of the food stores failed.

Aila was laying on the ground and staring at the starlit sky above her, her mind turning the cycle of thoughts which had not ceased its haunting, floating ceaselessly and persistently within the halls of her mind. She had not been sleeping well for the last few days since they had left Celeborn and Galadriel's city. Insomnia had dogged at her heels, keeping her eyes open and her mind working furiously as the worries she had turned over endlessly during the day's journey continued well after the sun had set. And when she was, finally, each night able to fall asleep, her mind still did not rest and frightened her back awake with nightmares and lingering dreams. At times, her fitful rest had found her sprinting through the forest, chasing after some specter of Boromir as he crashed headlong into the waiting arms of Saruman's orcs. Or other nights she found herself drowning in the river, unable to reach the surface, and when she turned aside, she saw the faces of her companions: Frodo, and Aragorn, and Gimli, all struggling to the surface. This dream haunted her, perhaps, the most. For in the river, she saw also Legolas, but the Elf did not struggle to save himself, but watched forlornly and perfectly still as she, herself, drowned beside him.

She could not stand to suffer her thoughts any longer, so she stood up from where she lay on the ground between Pippin and Gimli, and went to join Legolas where the Elf was sitting up on watch. Aila sat quietly beside him on the fallen tree, and he did not turn his face to look at her but nodded in acknowledgement.

"You have not been sleeping." It was a statement, but Aila answered anyway,

"No." She folded her hands together and tucked them between her knees, and stared idly into the darkness of the trees that surrounded them. There were no night-sounds which usually might have filled the sparse forest, and the absence of these sounds seemed to worry both herself and Legolas. The Elf continued to gaze out into the trees, turning his head to scan the perimeter of their small camp and to check that each member of the Company was resting soundly, save themselves.

"Tell me," he said softly, his voice low and deep, as he astutely guessed that she was burdened with her thoughts. It was not idly, after all, that he had watched her bent back while they traveled along the river by day. He could recognize her expressions of worry as easily as he could know that he himself was thirsty or hungry.

But Aila did not immediately respond, because his unspoken question had rather increased the number of worries in her mind, rather than alleviating them. She immediately wondered what, and if, she could tell him. What burdens could she unload onto the Elf? Which could she share with him? Which burdens were safe enough to disclose? Surely she could not tell him about her struggle regarding Boromir's impending demise. First, she thought that he could have little opinion other than to save the Gondor Man from certain death, and she wasn't sure yet that this was the proper course. Second, because she thought that he would not understand her hesitation in the decision. Would he despise her – would he accuse her of having a cold or false heart? After all, how could she have any question of saving a member of their close-knit fellowship? She lowered her eyebrows over her eyes darkly, and turned her attention to her hands and her knees. And third, she knew that telling Legolas would mean that she had made her decision, and she certainly had not.

Before she realized she was doing it, Aila was suddenly talking, possibly to distract herself from the thoughts of Boromir which were inundating her in confusion and sorrow. Before she realized, Aila was telling Legolas about Haldir. "Do you know that Galadriel made me an offer?" she asked quietly, speaking to the trees rather than to Legolas, but the Elf's ears were listening intently to her words. "That she gave me a choice, similar to the choice she presented to each of you: a choice of attaining something you greatly desired, but for which you had to forsake Frodo and the Company?" Legolas responded quickly that he did not know she had faced such a choice, but there was a new line of concern in his forehead. "Galadriel told me that I could remain in Lothlórien." She stuttered now, and had to force herself to speak the words, to explain to Legolas. "She said that I could stay in Lothlórien if I stayed with ... if I stayed with Haldir."

"I do not understand," replied Legolas quickly, his voice sharp. Aila thought that his response was so quick that perhaps he did, indeed, fully understand. "Why would Galadriel offer you such a thing?"

"If I chose Haldir as my Match," Aila said slowly, measuring her words, deliberate and painstaking, in direct opposition to the racing of her heartbeat within her chest. "If I chose Haldir ... I could stay in Lórien."

"But you did not choose this," came his response after a time. Aila looked at his face to see that he was staring determinedly into the trees and away from her, but in the profile of his face she could see a pained expression.

She shook her head, lifting her arms to wrap around herself as though she were cold, surprised to find goose-bumps on her arms. "No," she said, "I did not. How could I?" she asked suddenly, turning her head again to look at Legolas. After a few heartbeats, he turned his head as well to look at her. "I do not know that what Galadriel offered to me was my heart's greatest desire."

They were both quiet for a few minutes, each turning over in their minds the meaning of Aila's words. Legolas and Aila both wondered what it would have been like had she remained in Lothlórien, matched to Haldir. At length, Legolas said slowly, "When Galadriel presented me with my choice ..."

"You do not need to tell me," said Aila quickly. Though a curious part of her greatly desired to know what Legolas had been offered, she knew that it was not her place to hear the deepest wish of her friend. And so she regretted her words, but was glad that she spoke them.

Legolas continued pointedly, looking at her with sorrowful eyes. "What Galadriel offered to me was a surprise to myself as well. I did not realize that it was the deepest longing of my soul. I thought I had already turned from that path. Though," he said, turning his gaze to his feet, "after a time, I have realized that it is indeed something which I crave, which I need, which is dearest to my heart."

"And yet still you chose the Company?" Aila asked, awed. The expression which sat on Legolas features now was heartbreaking and mournful: a perfect semblance of loss and sorrow and bitter regret.

"In the end, it is not my choice, no matter what Galadriel may offer or promise," said the Elf, sighing with a deliberate finality. "Even Galadriel, after I had made my choice to continue with the Company, said the very same. The object of my desires ... will make my choice." Gimli grunted in his sleep behind them, causing Legolas to turn his face to regard the Dwarf, and as he turned again back to Aila, his eyes searched her face, a wild desperation in his deep blue eyes. Aila did not know what he was looking for, but after a time, he seemed to give up and said only, with another heavy sigh, "I can only await that decision, whenever it may come." And because Aila could not bring herself to ask what his choice had been, could not be so selfish as to ask him to reveal the object of his dearest affection, she did not know how strikingly similar had been Legolas' choice to her own. She did not know that she had been the subject of two of the choices posed by the Lady of the Wood.

Again, they sat in silence, without even the croaking of frogs or chirping of crickets to distract their mutual thoughts.

"And so you do not love Haldir?" Legolas said at last and he turned his face again to look at hers, though she turned her face away from his searching gaze. How could she answer? How should she answer?

"No," she said quietly. "I hardly know him." Legolas had unknowingly unearthed another reason for her worry and silence, and the Elf waited quietly for her to continue, as he saw on her face that she held back a torrent of words, biting delicately into her bottom lip and creasing her forehead by drawing her eyebrows together in thoughtfulness. "It's only that ... that he seemed so _sure_," she said finally, and breathlessly, turning her face finally to return Legolas' gaze and her eyes desperately searched his face for some answer to her silent question. "How could he love me, if he hardly knows me? After all, if I don't have enough time to really know him, how can he claim any knowledge of my person at all?" She lifted her hand to her face and placed the knuckles of her fist against her mouth, fighting the urge to bite her nails in frustration. Instead, she rested her cold hand against her lips. "And it leads me to wonder ... are there any here, in this Middle-earth, that know me? That can lay claim to knowing anything about me, really?"

"_Iston gin_," said Legolas insistently, reaching out to take her hand from her face, and he wrapped her fingers within both of his hands. "I know you," he said again, in the Common speech, emphatically.

"Do you?" she asked, surprised at the tears which were rising in her throat and choking her speech. The sound of her faltering words caused a wave of emotion to pass over Legolas' face, and his grip on her hand tightened. "I am an entirely different person, of an entirely different world. I have a whole history that none here know anything of. Did you know that I'm an only child? That the scars on my knees are from falling off of my bike when I was nine? Did you know that I work as a researcher in a discipline, in neuroscience, that is not the discipline I have both of my degrees in? Did you know that I have this whole repository of knowledge about brain structure and function and cognition – and that all of it is useless here? Here, where I don't understand the cultures, or the languages, or even the Races ... Did you know that each new day terrifies me, because I am starting to feel more comfortable here, and further from my own home?" She raised her free hand to wipe the tears from her face, where they had sprung readily onto her cheeks.

He intertwined his fingers with hers, wrapping his long hand tightly around hers, and used his freed hand to pull Aila against his shoulder, and she stayed there for a long time, looking out into the sparse trees that surrounded them, and listening to the rushing of the river behind them and the steady breath in Legolas' chest. And she heard the rumbling begin in his chest as he said quietly and passionately, "_Iston. Iston gin._"

. . .

_Iston_ = I know

_Iston gin_ = I know you


	26. A Shot in the Dark

Author's Note: I had meant to publish this chapter last night, but the log-in page for this site wasn't working and I didn't have access to the publish function. Thwarted by technology it seems ... I am hoping that my attempt to post this morning will prove successful. I apologize for the delay. That said: I'm very excited for the upcoming chapters. I'm very much looking forward to writing them, and I can't wait to hear what you think about where I'm going with this story. Cheers, and enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 26 A Shot in the Dark

The sallow trees that bordered the Great River Anduin finally failed as the Company traveled south, and their small, fleet elven boats were exposed and obvious in the barren landscape. Aragorn, whose eyes roved endlessly over the nondescript land for signs of the Enemy, quickly switched their resting patterns on end; and so the Company began to travel by night and rest, hidden, by day. Aila found their nocturnal schedule reminiscent of Hollin, and she realized suddenly that the days they had walked in that northern land felt distant and aged to her. Had it been so long since her feet had tread on Hollin's rocky soil? Perhaps not, but much had happened since.

Now that the Company traveled by night, Aila did not even have the sparse and despairing landscape to distract her. Though she squinted and strained her eyes, she could not make out any features of their surroundings in the inky blackness that swallowed the river. She could hear well the movement of the river past her, and the lapping of the water against the sides of the boats, and occasionally she could hear the directive paddle-dip of Aragorn or Boromir or Legolas as each steered his boat; and the water was dark and seemed to absorb what little light was present in the air. Even the stars did not shine above them, as a thick layer of low clouds had obscured the night sky, covering the moon and its merry band of twinkling stars, and leaving only thick, murky bleakness that oppressively hovered above Aila as she floated southward: powerless and sightless. She stared now up at the clouds, willing that some might part so that she could catch a glimpse of the starry night, and perhaps even that the light of the stars would reveal the surrounding landscape – and reassure her that their solitary boats, traveling down the river, were indeed solitary. Aila arched her back as her neck craned upward, and she thrust her shoulders back to stretch out her spine. Her back ached from days of sitting in the small, cramped boat, with nothing to rest her back against. She sat hunched, sometimes resting her elbows on her knees, but there was no truly comfortable position to be found in the boat, though she had tried. Sometimes, Gimli's hand had shot forward to arrest her movement, as her constant shifting and adjusting had occasionally threatened the integrity of the low-sitting boat. At such times, she would smile sheepishly and apologetically to the equally grumpy Dwarf, and remain as still as she could. But such stillness could never last, and she was back to shifting uncomfortably.

The oppressive darkness was pressing in against Aila's peripheral vision, tunneling her sight so that she saw only the movement of the water immediately in front of their boat. Aila could hear the near-silent movement of Aragorn's boat not twenty yards from them, but she could only just make out their shadowy figures in the light-starved night.

Legolas' voice floated to her out of the darkness, and it had a muffled quality, as though the air itself had developed a viscosity that dulled his melodic timbre. She wondered for more than a few moments whether she had only imagined his voice as he asked, "What is a bike?" The sound of his voice – indeed of any sound at all in the domineering silence of the dark night – surprised her and froze the thoughts in her mind for but a moment. Slowly, she turned to look back, and she saw Gimli watching her with dark eyes, a hand twisted in his thick beard. She could barely see the tall, slim shape of Legolas' figure, though he sat only five feet or so behind her. His voice floated forward again, though she could not see that his lips were moving. She could not see any of the features of his face. "You said that you have scars on your knees, which resulted from a fall from your bike. And I have been thinking on this, and I cannot find the answer. What is a bike?"

Aila only stared dumbly at Legolas for a few moments, her lips slightly agape in surprise. She was surprised that Legolas had remembered her careless aside from a conversation several days ago, and she was also surprised that he had spent the energy thinking on what she had said. And it made her blush a little to think that Legolas wanted to know about such an insignificant childhood injury and the mysterious device which had caused it. "It's for transportation," she began slowly, measuring the volume of her voice against the quiet voice of the river. She hoped that her voice would not travel far over the water, but stay contained to the confines of their own boat. Furtively, she looked over to Aragorn's boat again but she did not hear or see any sign that any in that boat had heard her. "It has two wheels – one in front and one behind – and you sit on it and power it by pushing pedals with your feet. You can travel a lot quicker on a bike than by walking."

"And why not simply travel by horse?" asked Legolas.

"You don't need to feed a bike," was Aila's quick response. She thought about her own bike, which was locked up on the balcony of her apartment, waiting patiently to be used again. Months ago, she had biked to work every day, but when she moved farther away from Cambridge at the end of the summer, she had begun to commute by car, and so her deep red road bike sat forlorn and unused and collecting dust. At this thought, she felt a sharp pang of guilt and she immediately promised herself that she would go for more bike rides on the weekends and even try to commute a few days to work on her bike. Duke would like to run alongside her bike again, she thought, and smiled at the thought of the Doberman barking and running along, and she imagined she could even feel the wind through her hair. But even as immediately as she had made this hollow promise, she felt another pang in her stomach and wondered if she would ever get the opportunity to bike to work again. Would she survive the quest? She didn't know. She didn't even know if she would ever return home, whether she survived or not. Aila tried to banish these thoughts, and instead held onto the imagined feeling of bicycling along the Charles River. "There's something very nice about biking," she said quietly, after her moments of introspection had left an awkward hanging silence between the three in their boat. "A feeling of freedom, I guess ... Maybe even a recklessness when you're going too fast." She smiled to herself, knowing that neither Legolas or Gimli could see her shy grin, and let her eyes fall to the floor of the boat. "Many of my favorite memories were from the seat of a bike."

Gimli prompted her to share some of these memories, perhaps because he heard the magical longing in her voice, or because he had indeed seen the small smile that lit up her face when no such expression of pleasure had interrupted her features' distortion of worry for many days. She obliged, still with a faint smile on her face and within her voice, and she tried to recall her favorites. "Like biking through the German countryside along the river Elbe. It rained the whole way – absolutely poured, and I was soaked through, even my shoes. But on the way back, the clouds opened up and the sun shone, and everything was bright green and beautiful. Bright grass, and blue water, and quaint cottages with white-washed walls. And I could bike as slowly as I wanted to just absorb it all, to soak it all in." Her eyes lifted again to regard the darkness which surrounded them. As her mind reeled with the sweet memory of her bike-ride through Saxony, the bright memory alleviated the tyranny of the lightlessness and relieved the weight of her heart somewhat. "It's nice to think about," she told Gimli and Legolas, turning back to look at them, but still she could not make out either of their faces. "It makes me feel a little better ... about this darkness."

"And is that where your mind has been?" asked Gimli, his husky voice low and gravelly as he tried to remain quiet. "When you have sat silent and grave in the front of this boat?"

"No," responded Aila, lifting a hand to her chin and resting her elbow on her knee. "It has not. But it should have been."

She could see Legolas' head bob in a nod, and after a few moments, his voice came to her ears again. "I have been thinking of my home in the north, and I must admit that my heart has been running free in a favorite glade, beneath the bright stars and the light of the moon."

Aila could not stop the flow now of pleasant memories which distracted her from darker thoughts and alleviated the pressure that the darkness was pressing against her lungs. She began to breath more freely, and her smile broadened as she said, "Or wild Swedish strawberries! So sweet and sharp and juicy." She ran a tongue over her bottom lip. "I can almost taste them. That is a happy memory."

Legolas leaned forward, the paddle sitting horizontally in his lap, and he said only, "Swimming." Aila immediately voiced her ardent agreement. "Swimming through cool water, on a hot summer afternoon. I can think of no experiences more pleasant or freeing. Though it makes me wish this water were clearer, or the air above warmer. It is not a night for swimming; not in the chill of the night air or in the cold embrace of this murky water. But still! It makes my heart lighter to think of these happier moments."

Both Aila and Legolas both looked to Gimli, expecting the Dwarf to join in and share a favorite memory which had served to stave the gloom from his heart. The Dwarf only shook his head, and Aila heard the rustling of his rough beard against his chest of mail. "I can think only of her gift," and he rested a hand against his chest.

"Still?" asked Aila incredulously, and was glad to hear a quiet laugh break free from her throat. If she could see Gimli's features, she would have seen the dark expression with which he stared back at her now.

"I have only been thinking if any gold or gem is precious enough to hold this wondrous gift. Surely there must be some enclosing worthy of it, though I have been distressed that I cannot think of any."

"But when you think of her gift, do you also think of the Lady Galadriel, and her forest, her Lothlórien?" Aila's question was met with a penitent silence from the Dwarf, but after a few seconds, she could vaguely see the figure of his head nodding in the darkness.

"Aye," replied the Dwarf, and his low voice was thick with memory. "Yes, I do. I think oft of the first time she smiled at me, of her bright keen eyes and pale white skin. I think of the sound of her voice – to think she said that I was brave and true. She told me I would not forsake my companions, though ever fiber of my being wished that I could!" He spoke of the Lady Galadriel with a measured tenor, and Aila thought he sounded as though describing intimacies with a lover, and she felt embarrassed to hear him.

They continued their game for the rest of the night, each recalling a fond memory and sharing it with the two others, both as a method of relieving the stress in their chests from their week abroad on the river and also, Aila thought, to bring each of them closer in companionship to the other. It was in this manner that Aila learned Legolas' favorite parts of the forest, of the castle in which he lived in Mirkwood, and his surprising fondness of quiet and solitude. She learned that Gimli often craved smoky, noisy inns, and a pint of rich, dark ale. And for the first time, Aila began to talk about the life she had left behind, and which waited, on pause, for her. She told them about the university where she worked, and of the fresh and jubilant feeling that overwhelmed the campus in the fall when the newest batch of freshman arrived, and the taste of stress in the wintry air around exam times. When the sun began to dawn in the west, its light was cold and pale. The Company pulled their boats to the shore to eat and rest, huddling together in the anemic morning and casting doubtful glances at the terrain around them. But Aila sat happily, or as happily as she had been since leaving Lothlórien, and her thoughts were turned only on the happy memories which she had shared with Legolas and Gimli, and in turn producing in her imagination their own pleasant memories, and this endeavor distracted her entirely from any thought of her previous worries.

. . .

The daylight passed quickly, and Aila awoke from a sound rest to hear Aragorn calling the Company together to prepare to depart once more. The sun was sinking low behind the reaching peaks of the Misty Mountains to the west, though the Company was quickly outstripping the southern reach of the range. The setting sun cast broad swaths of red and orange across the pale yellow sky.

"Come!" cried Aragorn, busily gathering together their packs and thrusting them into the nearby boats. "We will venture one more journey by night. We are coming to the reaches of the River that I do not know well; for I have never journeyed by water in these parts before, not between here and the rapids of Sarn Gebir. But if I am right in my reckoning, those are still many miles ahead. Still there are dangerous places even before we come there: rocks and stony eyots in the stream. We must keep a sharp watch and not try to paddle swiftly."

That night, they kept their three boats close together, and to each in the front of the boats was given the task of keeping a look-out for rocks and stony shoals in the water; this task fell to Sam and Pippin and Aila. And so with a constant prayer on her breath that they had not come so far as she thought, Aila leaned forward in her boat and watched with strained eyes the water that rushed toward them, and past them. She could not see well in the darkness and her back was aching again from the awkward position, but she maintained her place and pulled the elven cloak tightly around her shoulders to ward off the stiff nighttime breeze. The sky was clearer this night than it had been in the previous, and the bright stars did afford her some sparse light to see the way in front of them. Indeed, the starlight glittered from the roiling surface of the river, and outlined clearly the shapes of her companions in the other two boats beside her. Hours passed, and she guessed that they neared midnight, and had a little hope that they had not yet come to the rapids, as she might have expected, when Sam's voice cried out in warning. And against this warning, she closed her eyes and frowned, and felt her eyes burning as tears threatened. Had they really come so far already? It was only their eighth day on the river.

The swirl of racing water was unmistakably heard now, and even Aila could see the large, looming shapes in front of them, and the starlight was reflected on the white froth of the rabid river. Their boats were thrust almost helplessly forward, and even though Legolas thrust his paddle into the water to guide their boat, they still swung wildly to the right, and crashed into Aragorn's boat, as Boromir's did the same from the other side.

"Hoy there, Aragorn!" shouted the Gondor Man, his mouth tight in concentration and displeasure. "This is madness! We cannot dare the Rapids by night! But no boat can live in Sarn Gebir, be it night or day!"

"Back, back!" cried Aragorn in response, wielding his own paddle and striking the water as though he held a sword. A fervent light was in his eyes, lit by the stars. "Turn! Turn if you can!"

There were only two paddles in each boat, and so Aila picked up the spare in her boat and paddled with Legolas, checking their boat with much effort to follow after Aragorn and Boromir. Gimli, who had little experience in boats, gripped the sides of their small boat, and his face was white. Aila tried to ignore his distress as she leaned forward and paddled in a panicked way, though she found she was as often using her paddle as a pole to push them away from an oncoming shoal as to paddle. Behind her, Legolas paddled sure and rapid. It was evident to her that they were making progress, however slow and pained. And before she could remember to be wary of it, she heard the sound of arrows flying in the air around them.

Legolas growled behind her, "_Yrch_!" His voice was low and fervent, tempered with the strain of their activity and his surprise at the attack. A black arrow struck the side of their boat, mere inches from Gimli's hand. The Dwarf rapidly drew his fingers from the side of the boat and he swore darkly in his native tongue, which only emphasized the anger and surprise he felt.

"Cast on your hoods!" Aila cried out softly to the rest of the Company, and was glad to see that the others hastily followed her command. Though it had taken Boromir and Aragorn and Legolas each only a heartbeat to pause in their paddling and cast on their hoods, it cost them a precious few feet of lost ground. They redoubled their mighty paddling, sweating and straining for the western shore. Arrows fell among them now, thick and dangerous, but none found their mark. Though the starlight was more than enough to light the landscape for the keen night-eyes of their pursuant Orcs, Aila knew that their clever elven cloaks and boats kept the Company from providing their attackers any mark in the darkness.

They labored on, and Aila arms were leaden and aching. But she could not give up, and through the entire ordeal she had the thought of death in the back of her mind. When her strength seemed to be fading, Gimli's voice would come from behind her, egging on her strength and encouraging her skill with the paddle. She wished that she could simply hand the paddle off to the Dwarf and trust that the strength of his arms would bring her safely to the shore, but she knew that he had little skill with the paddle and that, even as her strength lagged, it was her skill, and Legolas', which would bring them to the shore. At length – at last – the hull of their boat scraped against the sandy western shore of the Great River. As soon as she drove her paddle into the ground to push their boat forward out of the water, Aila saw that Legolas leapt from the boat, landing in the shallows and taking up his bow with the hand which had just thrown down his paddle. The fluidity of this exchange of instrument surprised Aila and she wondered that he had strength to draw the bow even after the test of the river's current. But draw his bow he did, stringing an arrow and staring across the river. Though they could hear black voices, there were no shapes to be seen in the blackness of the night, even for Legolas' sharp Elven eyes.

Gimli leapt from the boat as well, a bit ungainly, and his boots produced a mighty splash in the shallows as he landed on firm ground. He grinned broadly at Aila as he seized the front of the boat and pulled it ashore, beneath the overhanging brush of some large bushes that lined the shore. Beside her, Aila saw that Aragorn and Boromir did the same, safely and effectively hiding the boats and themselves. Legolas still stood forward, his feet in the water, and the river rushing around and wetting the calves of his legs, darkening the green leggings; but the Elf paid little mind, but still gazed easterly, staring at the far shore, as though willing any unlucky enemy to show himself. His jaw was set tightly and Aila could see the familiar muscle twitching in the side of his jaw as he stared fervently across the water. Aila stared dumbly at him as he stood – she hadn't even thought enough to leave the boat yet, though even Merry and Pippin and Frodo had scrambled to the shore. The Elf was tall and dominating, striking a valiant figure with drawn bow. His pale hair was awash with the star-glimmer of the night, sharp white stars forming a crown around his head as he stayed frozen, determined. And above his head, in the starry velvet expanse of the black sky, she saw outriders of onrushing clouds, moving swift and against the wind and towards them.

It did not take Legolas a moment to see this new threat in the sky, and he watched as the cloud emerged, coming closer to them, and revealed itself as a great winged creature, and its spread wings inked out the merry twinkling of the stars and cast a great shadow across the Company and the River. Fierce voices rose from across the river to greet this new monster. But Aila could not keep her eyes on the winged beast, but instead looked to Legolas.

"_Elbereth Gilthoniel_," the Elf sighed, and she recognized that it was not with fear that he exclaimed, but with surprise and awe and a resignedness that she did not expect. A dark screech sounded from the air, and the sound of it alone seemed to drop the temperature in the air by at least ten degrees.

The great bow of Lórien sang, and its voice was shrill and angry as Legolas loosed his arrow. There was a residual and melodic twanging of the elven-string, which Aila heard as her head turned to follow the flight of Legolas' arrow, and saw that the great winged beast swerved in the sky, and called out with a sickening and desperate cry. A croak, a scream, a wanton wrenching of vocal capacity that silenced every creature in the night. The eastern shore was quiet as the beast fell from the air, and disappeared into the eastern forest. The silence on the eastern shore continued, lamenting. The sky was clean once more.

Legolas did not pause to stare at the sky, as Aila did, but rather turned swiftly and, laying his hands on her upper arms, made to pull Aila from the boat where she still sat. She obliged his insistent touch, and stood to follow his guidance from the watercraft, numbly feeling the solid earth beneath her feet and following the Elf to crouch down behind the overgrown bushes that hid the rest of the Company, and his hand remained on her arm for a long time.

When Aragorn was certain that the silence on the eastern shore was to continue for the rest of the night, he waved the Company back into the boats and they crawled along the shore, feeling their way with gentle paddle-prods, until they found a shallow and broad bay, its water sitting cool and still and glassy in the small hours of the morning. Here, huddled in the boats still, they awaited morning. No more arrows or shouts came from the east. Aila was perfectly miserable, hunched in the boat, her back aching and her strained eyes rolling madly around the terrain around them, expecting every moment an attack which would not come. Gimli saw her discomfort, and so he turned his back on her and beckoned that she should lean up against him, which she did and was glad for it. She leaned her head back to rest on his shoulder, and she closed her tired and pained eyes against the playful glitter of the clueless stars above.

"Praised be the bow of Galadriel, and the hand and eye of Legolas!" said Gimli after a while, and she could hear and feel his jaw moving as he munched on a wafer of _lembas_. "That was a mighty shot in the dark, my friend!"

Legolas nodded, but his expression betrayed that he did not appreciate the laudation. "But who can say what it hit?" he asked pensively, watching the top of Aila's head where it peaked over Gimli's shoulder.

"Whatever it was," responded Frodo quietly, his bright blue eyes turned to the sky. He shivered visibly. "Its fall has dismayed our enemies."

"So it seems," said Aragorn, his voice serving to hush the others. "This night we must all be sleepless! Dark hides us now. But what the day will show who can tell?" He paused a moment, which Aila thought only served to dramatize the situation. "Have your weapons close to hand!" And so she drew Núadin and laid the sword across her knees. Glamdring still rested in its sheath on the floor of the small boat.

They sat quietly in the boats for another hour, or perhaps two, when Aila heard the distinct tapping of Sam's fingers against the hilt of his sword, and it sounded as though he were counting. "It's very strange," said the Hobbit, in his slow manner of speaking. His voice was but a murmur. "You'll remember, Mr. Frodo, the Moon was waning as we lay on the flet up in that tree: a week from full, I reckon. And we've been a week on the way last night, when up pops a New Moon as thin as a nail-paring, as if we had never stayed no time in the Elvish country!"

"And perhaps that was the way of it," responded Frodo, his voice low and thoughtful, waxing poetic and philosophical. "In that land, maybe, we were in a time that had elsewhere long gone by."

"Nay," responded Legolas, stirring for the first time in a while; Sam and Frodo's musing brought him from some reverie and watchfulness of the eastern shore. Aila craned and stretched her neck so that she could turn her face to look at him as he spoke. "Time does not tarry ever," he said quietly, a definite tone of sorrow in his voice. "But change and growth is not in all things and places alike. For the Elves the world moves, and it moves both very swift and very slow. Slow, because we do not count the running years, not for ourselves. The passing seasons are but ripples ever repeated in the long long stream. Swift, because we ourselves change little, and all else fleets by: it is a grief to us."

"And in Lórien time flowed swiftly by us, as for the Elves," said Aragorn, his face turned to Legolas, but Aila could not make out his expression in the darkness. "And yestereve a new moon came again. Winter is nearly gone: Time flows on to a spring of little hope."

The entire Company fell silent for the remainder of the night.


	27. Unnatural

Author's Note: I had a pretty difficult bout of writer's block for the last few days. I suppose that's what I get for trying to write according to a schedule. Anyway, I think this is the longest chapter yet, so please enjoy. I'd also like to express how much I've appreciated your reviews. I am overwhelmed and encouraged by your accolades! Thank you all so much for your support and your continued interest in my little story.

. . .

Ch. 27 Unnatural

The air was stilled and thick, hanging about Aila's shoulders, unmoving and heavily laden with moisture which clung to Aila's face and clothes. If the sun had risen at all, Aila could not tell. The morning had arrived as an almost imperceptible lightening of the air around them, tempered and dulled by the heavy mist that descended around them and over the surface of the Great River. The movement of the river's swift water could still be heard, though muffled, through the shielding air, but Aila could not see more than a few feet across the water's surface and the opposite shore was entirely lost in the dense gray of the fog. Under the cover of this haze, the Company had quit the boats and moved onto dry land again, whispering furtively to one another as they pulled the boats slowly onto the gravel beach. They gave each other pensive glances as the hulls of those boats cried out in protest of being dragged over the rock; the voices of the boats rose up, bright and loud in the hush of the impenetrable fog. But the sound was deadened by the thickness of the air and, thankfully, there was no response from the terrain around them. The unseen far shore gave no voice of inhabitation.

They made a sparse breakfast of _lembas_, each chewing his portion slowly and purposefully, his ears listening intently both to the sound of his own working jaw and to the quiet of the surrounding fog. The deadened silence was unnatural and unnerving, and as its dampness seeped into their clothes and skin so too did its perceptible sinister quality seep into their hearts and minds.

Aila sat hunched forward, her shoulders rounded, and her restrictive posture coupled with the thickness of the air made it hard for her to breath. She felt slightly short of breath but did not sit upright or make any movement to alleviate the difficulty of her breathing. Nor did she eat any of the _lembas_. Instead, her teeth worried away at the ravaged inside of her cheek.

Without taking any council, the Company sat upon the rocky shore and waited, knowing that they had little choice but to wait for the fog to lift. The air had to clear, even a little bit, if they were going to seek a path along the portage ways of the river's rapids. But while the fog remained, they could not dare to leave the immediate shore of the river, for fear that they might lose their way in the barren country, without even the mighty sound of the rushing water to guide them back to its murky course. The density of the air so muffled all sound that Aila feared they could not have ventured more than two hundred yards from the river without the sound of the current being lost entirely. And so they waited, in the oppressive, thick silence that sat heavily over their company, simultaneously depressing and irritating. Each member of the Company sat occupied with his own thoughts, and none spoke to any other or gave voice to the worries and misgivings in his own mind. At times, they glanced sparingly around the small circle of companions, and even less frequently two pairs of eyes would briefly meet by chance – to be quickly averted again. But more often than not, their eyes were turned blindly into the white miasma which pressed against them on all sides. Legolas' eyes were turned on Aila, whose gaze was unrelentingly on Boromir, and Boromir's gaze, in turn, remained only on Frodo. Frodo looked to the ground, or to his hairy toes.

And though they so depended on the lightening of the fog, a significant part of Aila wished, as she stared at Boromir, that the fog would never lift or relent. She wished that they would be forced to remain beside the river, here in this place, both trapped and protected by the fog. Here, beside the flow of the river, Aila knew that Boromir was safe. Just this little bit longer he could continue to live. Her mind was oddly dull and quieted, though she knew that it should be frenzied with wild thoughts and uncertainties. Still, she had not made her decision. Perhaps, she thought, she would not make her choice in time – but then she wondered: was inaction, in the end, also a choice? Would she choose by essence of failing to choose? Her thoughts felt weighted down as though her head was as full of fog as the air around her. She averted her eyes from Boromir shamefully, and instead fixed her eyes on her dirty, worn boots, placing her hands plaintively on her knees as she sat cross-legged on the uncomfortably rocky beach.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Legolas' hand move over to hers, and she both saw and felt his fingers wrap around her hand. His skin was chilled and it made his fingers stiff as he curled them determinedly around hers. She gladly accepted his grip, squeezing her fingers momentarily around his. After a few moments, their hands began to mutually warm from the touch.

She glanced up to Legolas quickly, expecting to see an encouraging expression in his dark blue eyes, but instead she saw that he was gazing broodingly into the fog, his eyes blank and sightless. And it did not take her long to guess the content of his thoughts. After all, it had also been a moment constantly replaying in her own mind. But she knew what Legolas did not – and that was the nature of the beast which he had so skillfully shot from the sky above them. A steed of the Nazgûl, she knew, could not be so easily destroyed, but she was still glad that it had disappeared from the sky and had not made any reappearance. She wondered, also, how many of that Nazgûl's sinister brothers were stalking them through the fog.

It also brought to her mind Legolas' exclamation. The tone with which he had uttered that repenting phrase, _Elbereth Gilthoniel!_, had haunted her thoughts; a nagging at the back of her mind, which snagged her thoughts and tore through them as though through delicate fabric. He hadn't shouted, or exclaimed in fear or surprise. The prayerful phrase had escaped his lips as a resigned sigh, a delicate and sorrowful and troubled utterance. And it was this quiet reserve which had terrified Aila, and which probably disturbed her more than any exclamation of fear from the Elf could have disturbed her.

And while her thoughts were turned on worrying about Legolas, her mind lastly recalled to her thoughts the words which he had spoken to Frodo; words which Aragorn had reacted to so powerfully, though Aila hadn't been able to catch the Ranger's expression in the darkness. _It is a grief to us_, the Elf had said. Time flowed past the unchanging Elves, and it grieved them to see the world flow by. She recalled the afternoon she had spent in Rivendell – and the memory felt so distant and foreign to her that she could hardly believe it was truly herself who had experienced it – philosophizing on the concept of Time to the enduring Elves. She had not considered then that there were any drawbacks to the eternality of the long-lived Elves. Was it truly such a sorrow to be eternal? And as she thought on it, she recognized the pitiable sorrow inherent in an unending life: to watch the world pass by – a solitary and ever-lasting part of it, and yet ... by that very same virtue, not a part of it at all. Would it not be grievous to watch a tree die which you had seen grow since a seedling? Or, worse still, to say good-bye to mortal friends, whose lives were but a passing fancy in the long-days of your enduring life? Her heart jolted in her chest when she had this last thought. Was it painful to Legolas to befriend Gimli, knowing that he would outlast the Dwarf? – That he must endure the death of his friend? Or ... and she could only just allow this thought to pass into her mind, and very reluctantly at that ... even herself? Was her friendship more pain than pleasure to Legolas, because he knew that she, also, must die? And how short did her life seem to him? How fleeting were her own numbered days of life? And in that moment, she felt guilty for her own mortality.

Aila looked again at Legolas, but he continued to gaze unseeingly into the gray mist.

After a few hours of waiting, as the sun neared its zenith in the sky, the fog did indeed begin to lift. Perhaps their clothing had succeeded in sapping all the moisture from the air – as it felt that their heavy clothes were perfectly soaked in the dampness of the atmosphere – or that the sun overhead had worked at burning off some of the overcast haze. But the terrain around them began to open up and the Company began to feel restless and ready to move again. A hurried and hushed conversation decided that Aragorn and Legolas would go forward to find some way by which they could carry their boats and baggage to the smoother water beyond the rapids of Sarn Gebir. Boromir's voice was dark and doubtful as he grumbled that they could not continue by boat much farther; and also, he said, they should have no need. The way to Gondor no longer followed the path of the Anduin. Aragorn did not address Boromir, but his eyelids were heavy and hooded over pensive eyes.

Legolas released Aila's hand and he stood up, and Aila's eyes followed him as he stood. The sun shone palely through the remaining high-seated haze, and the anemic light framed his head as she looked up at him. He did not look back to Aila as he walked over to join Aragorn where the Ranger stood at the other side of their small circle.

"Wait for us one day," said the Man ominously. He belted his sword, Andúril, to his hip, and spent a moment straightening the sword so that it hung properly. Aragorn turned back again to the other members of the Company. Legolas slung his Lórien-bow over his shoulder and shrugged his shoulders to adjust the quiver on his back. Both of their expressions were grim. "If we do not return in that time, you will know that evil has indeed befallen us. Then you must take a new leader and follow him as best you can." Aragorn nodded meaningfully to Frodo, and then the Ranger and Elf disappeared southward into the mist.

Frodo's eyes were round and nervous as he watched the two disappear to discover a riverside path. He felt some relief for the heaviness in his heart, however, when he looked to Aila because she did not seem concerned at all. Though her eyes followed the Man and Elf as the two disappeared into the mist, her frown did not seem connected with their leave-taking. Indeed, Aila knew that the two would return within a few hours to lead the Company along a little-traveled portage way which would leave them past the Sarn Gebir rapids. And with Legolas departed, Aila's attention and worries turned back to Boromir.

Her heart felt sick with worry, her intestines were twisted around her stomach, and she had the taste of bile in the back of her throat. She needed a way to expel the worry from her chest, and she needed to rationally lay out her options so that she could make a choice. It felt wrong to her that she battled over Boromir's fate. Who was she to choose whether he lived or died? A moment of clarity reminded her that Isgwen had packed her the very objects which she now required: paper and pen. She pulled the book and writing instrument from her pack, turning past the first few pages of the book which were filled with tengwar lettering of Sindarin words and phrases. She ran her palm thoughtfully along the first blank page that she found, and she looked up uncertainly at the companions still sitting in a rough circle beside the river. With the pen grasped in her hand, she knew that she could not simply write out her misgivings, could not put into ink the behemoth struggle she was battling, could not write the fate of the Gondor Man where any might find and read it. She wondered, however, if any would be able to read her efforts, if she wrote in her native English. Sindarin, after all, used the tengwar lettering, and not Latin letters. Did the Common Tongue also use a writing system foreign to her? And would her Latin alphabet be enough to baffle a side-long curious eye, or the measured attention of an intruder to her written thoughts? Though she thought it likely that none of the Company would be able to recognize her Latin alphabet spelling of the Common Tongue, she was not prepared to take the chance. So when she put the pen to paper, it was with a mighty internal struggle that she attempted to translate her concerns and worries into languages which she was sure that none of the Company – or really any in Middle-earth – would know. And so her thoughts mostly took the form of Swedish, which she was most apt in, but often she found that she could not think of the right word in Swedish to translate her worries, and so her writing, as it flowed forth in an unsteady hand, took a motley assortment of linguistic expression. For instance, she could not remember the verb _to die_ in Swedish, and so she wrote in German instead: _sterben _and _zugrunde gehen_. And she couldn't remember _river_, and so she wrote the Spanish _agua _and _rio_. And, of course, she did not refer to any member of the Company by name, but only by their first initial. The resulting scribbles, which did their intended work at relieving the pressure in her lungs and the weight of her heart, were a mess of languages, crossing-outs, special characters, and seemingly random alphabetical insertions. And peppered heavily throughout the entire dialogue, was found: _Vad ska jag g__ö__ra?_ Aila asked this of herself again and again. _What should I do?_

. . .

It was early afternoon when Aragorn and Legolas returned, triumphant. "All is well," called out the Man as he clambered down the rocky bank of the river towards them. "There is a track, and it leads to a good landing that is still serviceable. The distance is not great: the head of the Rapids is but a half mile below us, and they are little more than a mile long. Our hardest task will be to get our boats and baggage to the old portage-way. We have found it, but it lies well back from the water-side here, and runs under the lee of a rock-wall, a furlong or more from the shore. We did not find where the northward landing lies. If it still remains, we must have passed it yesterday night. We might labor far upstream and yet miss it in the fog. I fear we must leave the River now, and make for the portage-way as best we can from here."

Legolas walked over to sit again beside Aila, and she realized too late that she sat still with the book open in her lap, the content of her troubled thoughts open to the hazy sky. She quickly snapped the book closed and transferred both book and pen back into her pack, and she did not meet Legolas' eyes, but she knew that he had seen a glimpse of her writings.

"That would not be easy," responded Boromir to Aragorn's speech. The Gondor Man looked darkly around the small circle, and his narrowed eyes lingered on the hobbits, and on Gimli the Dwarf. "Even if we were all Men," he finished doubtfully.

"Yet such as we are we will try it," responded Aragorn, gesturing to the others that they should get up and collect their baggage.

"Aye, we will," said Gimli gruffly. He rose in an ungainly fashion, and straightened his shirt of mail over a proudly puffed-out chest. "The legs of Men will lag on a rough road, while a Dwarf goes on, be the burden twice his own weight, Master Boromir!"

The task did prove to be difficult. The way to the small path which Legolas and Aragorn had found led over rocky outcroppings which hid frequent holes and dips, shrouded by weeds and low-lying brambles and other such distasteful flora. The boats themselves were not heavy, constructed of some sturdy yet light wood that none of them were familiar with, but still the way was so rough that it took the strength of both Aragorn and Boromir to transport each boat safely to the distant portage-way. So, one by one, the two strong Men carried each gray boat. It was painstakingly slow going, and the rest of the company followed after the Men, laden down with the baggage. Aila nearly twisted her ankle falling into one of the hidden holes among the rocks, but she was able to right herself just in time.

At last, they found themselves again at the river's edge, just south of the rushing rapids of Sarn Gebir. The portage-way led to a small, shallow pool scooped from the surrounding rock by the swirling water. The short afternoon had already passed, and the sallow dusk of evening was upon them. They were all exhausted from their arduous overland trek, but Aragorn had a look that he wished them to continue on the river through the night. Again, Boromir's voice raised up in opposition to their leader.

"Well, here we are," he announced, pointedly tossing his pack to the ground in a decidedly final way. "And here we must pass another night. We need sleep," he asserted, when Aragorn opened his mouth to argue the point. "And even if Aragorn had a mine to pass the Gates of Argonath by night, we are all too tired – except, no doubt, our sturdy dwarf." Gimli made no response; the Dwarf was nodding off where he sat.

"Let us rest as much as we can now," responded Aragorn after a time, setting his baggage cautiously on the ground. He looked questioningly to Aila, and she nodded shallowly in response. He looked a little relieved by her nod, and settled himself upon the ground. "Tomorrow we must journey by day again. Unless the weather changes once more and cheats us, we shall have a good chance of slipping through, unseen by any eyes on the eastern shore. But tonight two must watch together in turns: three hours off and one on guard."

Once more they made a sparing meal of the _lembas_, and Aila laid down upon the cold, hard ground to rest. She felt as though she had only just closed her eyes when Legolas woke her again. The night was quiet and dark, interrupted only by the heavy breathing of Gimli in his sleep, and the occasional chirping of faraway crickets. She guessed it was close to midnight as she wiped her drowse from her eyes and stood up to sit watch with Legolas. The Elf had found a nearby fallen log and they sat on it now side by side, but facing opposite directions. Aila gazed back over the sleeping Company, and across the river, and Legolas was turned away to the impenetrable country beyond. They both sat in silence for a long time, their eyes constantly scanning their surroundings.

"What were you writing?" Legolas' question caught Aila off-guard, as she hadn't expected his voice out of the silence of the night, and also because she realized she had been afraid he would ask that very question. His voice sounded innocently curious, but the content of her writings inspired a dark uncertainty in her chest. She froze, her thoughts flying through her mind as she wondered what to say to him. She had the sudden irrational fear that Legolas had been able to read her journaling, and that he knew everything. Her silence drew out the pause, and so he asked again: "Earlier, in the book which you had. What did you write in it?"

"I was practicing my Sindarin," she responded quickly to his second voicing of the question. The lie came suddenly and easily from her lips, and she immediately hated it. It should not feel easy to lie to Legolas. She should not have to lie to him at all.

Legolas turned to look at her, surprised. "_Istog peded edhellen?_" Aila realized that she had never told Legolas about her elvish-lessons in Lothlórien, and his surprise now was genuine and pleased. She heard the smile in his voice as he spoke to her in his native tongue.

"_No_," she responded slowly, concentrating on the difficult accent and the fluidity of the music in her words. "_Pedin edhellen_." And she smiled softly into the darkness. "Isgwen was teaching me in Lothlórien."

"_Mae bennen_," he replied, and again she heard the pleasure in his voice. His tone shifted quickly: "But this is not what you were writing."

Caught in her lie, the guilt which Aila had felt about telling it multiplied in her chest twenty-fold, turning in on itself and replicating. She shifted uncomfortably where she sat, and frowned in an apologetic manner thought she knew that Legolas could not see her expression. She folded, unfolded, and re-folded her hands in her lap, and again, twisting her fingers and nervously cracking her knuckles. Her heart thumped uneasily in her chest. Aila did not want to – could not bring herself to – lie to Legolas again. But what choice did she have? Her burden was not to be shared. The sigh which broke free from her throat was heavy and audible in the dimmed night. The chirping of the crickets had stilled. "I'm sorry, Legolas," she began, and her voice was low and deep, a calculated, hushed and broken whisper. The desperate sound of her own voice surprised even Aila. "I was only trying to work through the worries and fears which have been overwhelming me since we left Lórien. I thought that writing them out would give me some clarity, would afford me some relief." And again she paused, and thought for a moment. "And for a time, I suppose, it did."

"Tell me," Legolas said, his voice insistent. "Tell me these worries." When she did not respond, he asked, "Can you not share with me?"

The question, and its insinuation, broke Aila's heart. She hung her head and looked to her feet. "No," she said finally, "I cannot share this with you. It is not something which can be shared. It is not something which should be shared."

Suddenly Legolas turned, twisting his entire torso so that he faced her, and he placed one long hand on her leg, just above the knee, to steady himself, and the other hand he rested comfortingly on her shoulder. She felt his fingers squeeze her shoulder as his beseeching eyes bore into her. "Tell me," he said again, more adamantly. His voice was broad and firm. "Unload your anxieties, share them with me." He paused a moment, and finished forcefully, "I can help you bear this weight."

"I _can't_, Legolas," she said vehemently, noting the sharp poison in her voice, and her tone was bright and sharp. But her expression quickly softened, and she said quietly and more thoughtfully, "And even if I could, you must understand that I wouldn't. I would never wish this worry on you."

It was a few moments before Legolas responded, and he looked to be processing her last sentence thoroughly. "If you feel this way," he began slowly, measuring each word, "if you so care for me that you would not wish to burden me ... then can't you understand," and he paused again, his tone was high and desperate. His deep blue eyes were wide and searching. "Can you not see that it also pains me, that it pains me to see that you are so burdened? Do you think it does not break my heart to see your frown, to see you nervously chew your lip, to see such a heavy burden bend your back and warp your shoulders? Can you not see that I am affected, whether you would include me or not?"

"Stop," she whispered hastily, and her voice was thick in her throat. "Please." Her desperation was plainly evident. She tried to return his gaze, but she knew that her eyes were weak and tearful as she stared back into his dark blue eyes. The color was bright even in the darkness. And she said, with a sense of finality, "This worry is mine alone."

Legolas leaned back, and Aila realized she hadn't noticed he had been leaning forward toward her. He also removed his hands from her shoulder and her leg, and the absence of his touch was powerful and resonated within her fragmented chest. "Then you are so narrow-sighted, you cannot see that it is not."

He turned away from her again, and he stared once more, sightlessly, into their darkened surroundings.

Aila could feel tears threatening, burning in her throat and at the corners of her eyes. Her nose was tingling. Hatred began boiling in her stomach; hatred for the situation she found herself in, hatred for herself at having to turn away such close companionship that Legolas offered, hatred that she had to wound him so. Her hatred roiled and twisted in her stomach, rising as lava to burn in her chest; but when the anger and hatred touched her heart, it was entirely defeated by her sorrow, and all emotion but overwhelming pain fled from her. Her eyes fell again on Boromir where the Man rested soundlessly, not fifteen feet from her. Her molars ground together as she looked at him.

She turned her head again to look at Legolas, and she continued to stare determinedly at the Elf until he, finally, turned his head to return her gaze. Aila thought she saw a look of surprise on his face when he saw her features twisted in pain. "Please," she whispered, delicate and desperate. Her voice sounded broken and defeated. She offered her hand to him, and begged, "help me." Legolas took her hand carefully into his own, wrapping his fingers around hers, and he watched her cautiously with an uncertain expression. She closed her eyes tightly and whispered again, "_Elio nin_."

Aila gathered her courage together, pulling strength from Legolas' touch, and she concentrated on Boromir. She was afraid of what she would find, she was afraid that she could have no effect, but she was more afraid of never trying. And so, with Legolas beside her and with his touch emboldening her, Aila screwed her eyes tightly closed.

Darkness met her. The bleakness was more overwhelming than even the night which surrounded them, or the oppressive fog which had occupied the day. Aila had no idea that she was even in the right place – had she succeeded in accessing Boromir's mind? She had never intruded on the Man's thoughts before, and she tried to turn her head to look about, tried to force her eyes to adjust to the lightlessness, but there was nothing to be seen. Blindly, she tried to take a step forward, and she felt her foot come down on a hard floor, but she did not hear her footfall. She brought her hands to her face, to feel her own skin, to assure herself that she was present, and her fingers touched cold, clammy skin. Aila ran her fingers over her familiar nose, her lips, even her eyes. She noted that there was no change in her sightlessness when her eyes were opened or closed. A sudden idea took her and so, fearfully, she raised her fingers to her ear and snapped, forcefully pummeling her palm with her middle finger; and she heard no sound. She did not even hear the thrumming of her own blood through her ears. She was enveloped with silence. Desperately, she clapped her hands in front of her, feeling the sting on the palms of her violently collided hands, and though the movement should have produced a loud, reverberating sound, Aila heard nothing at all. She opened her eyes wide in disbelief, but a tiny thought began to grow in her mind that she was being starved of her senses. She was standing in a bewitching, inky blackness that robbed her of her sight and hearing. She inhaled deeply, but there was also nothing to smell. The air was thick and humid.

Aila spread her hands out in front of her, feeling blindly. Her mind worked frantically to contrive a solution: could she call a light to this darkness? Was it in her power to give light and sound to this space? She didn't know what to do, and she had the eerie feeling that there was something in this space which feasted on her senses, which took pleasure in starving her of her sight and hearing. The air moved almost imperceptibly, blowing against the right side of her face. Aila felt her hair move. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her forearm in the darkness. And Aila screamed – and though she could feel the sound moving through her throat, vibrating in her chest, and escaping her mouth in a mighty screech, no sound met her ears. Though she was sightless, Aila closed her eyes tightly again.

She opened them again against bright sunlight. For a few moments, she blinked dumbly, looking around her in surprise and fear. She was quite alone here, but she still had a creepy feeling, a searing remnant of wherever she had been before. A quick look to her right forearm revealed an angry red burn, in the shape of a handprint.

Aila looked around her now and realized that she recognized the place. Whether she had come here because she was still holding Legolas' hand, or because she had unconsciously remembered how comforting this place had been, she recognized the cheery forest of Legolas' mind. It seemed darker than it had been before, when she had sought refuge there from the freezing air of Caradhras, and she realized it seemed that the sun was setting distantly, far beyond the stretch of the trees. She turned her face toward the light of the setting sun, where bright rays were shooting down to the forest floor, and closed her eyes against it, trying to pull some of its warmth into her body. Her skin still felt cold and clammy. When she opened her eyes again, it was with a loud and surprised gasp – which she was, at least, glad to be able to hear.

Legolas stood in front of her, only a few inches away, and he was staring at her face with curiosity and doubt. His sudden appearance surprised Aila, but he did not frighten her. Her name reverberated through the forest: "Aila." But it was not the Legolas in front of her who said this word: he continued to stare at her with lips pressed tightly together. Her name had seemed to materialize from the forest itself, and its voice was faint and dulled.

"Legolas," she replied quietly, and felt intimidated by the Mind Wraith before her. She had never met another's Wraith before, save for Gandalf's anemic apparition, and she was unsure what to do. Slowly and cautiously, she side-stepped the Legolas in front of her, so that she moved away from his immediate presence and stood only a foot or two to his left. Legolas continued to stare doggedly into the space where she had been only moments before. But after a few moments, he seemed to catch on that she had moved, and he inhaled deeply as though sniffing her out, and his head moved back and forth until he seemed to find her again. And he moved and stood before her again, wordlessly and blindly staring at her. Aila realized that he could not see her, but some part of him was sensing her.

Again, the forest cried out her name: "Aila."

When Aila returned again to her physical body, she saw that Legolas was watching her with wide eyes, and in wonder. Their hands were still tightly clasped. "Aila," he said again, and she recognized the voice of the forest. His eyebrows were knit together firmly in confusion and awe. "I could ..." he said slowly, his lips moving as though he could barely comprehend the words he spoke. "I could tell that you were there. I could _feel_ you."

But Aila did not look back at Legolas. Rather, her eyes turned back to the members of the sleeping Company, and she watched as Boromir continued to sleep soundly, as though nothing had occurred. She could feel, even without pulling up her sleeve, that her right arm was still burning from his violent touch.

Their turn for keeping watch was over, and so Aila and Legolas stood to wake Gimli and Merry, and then they went to lie back down. For Aila, however, sleep did not come.

. . .

The morning seemed bleak to Aila, and not just for the return of the fog, though it was not quite as thick as it had been the previous day. Her mind was turning dully over and over again the events of the previous night. Unthinkingly, she rested her left hand on her right forearm, pressing delicately against the painful burn that marked her skin. She could feel the tightness of her injured flesh, and it reminded her, sickeningly, of her failure.

When she approached the boat, she saw that Legolas and Gimli were exchanging words though she could not hear yet what they said. As she came closer, the Dwarf turned her and shrugged his shoulders to adjust his mail shirt. He hefted his axe and laid it on the floor of their small, gray boat. "If you don't mind," he began brusquely, with a pointed look to Legolas, though he obviously addressed Aila, "I thought that I would sit in the front of the boat today. The fog is thick," he explained, and winked, "and I have the eyes of a fox!" Aila's mind was too full of other things to wonder at his desired change in seating, but she quickly acquiesced. And so when the three boats of the Company set sail that morning into the thick fog, it was Gimli who sat in the prow of the third boat. The Dwarf was much heavier than either Aila and Legolas, and so Aila found that she could not sit in the middle, but rather had to sit far back in the boat to off-set the Dwarf's girth. She placed her pack on the floor of the boat, and sat upon that, leaning her back against Legolas' shins. With a pained sigh, she let her head fall back and she rested the back of her skull against the Elf's knees for a long time.

By midday the sun had burned off most of the mist, but they were already well on their way down the river and there was no sign of the Enemy on the eastern shore. Sunlight flashed into Aila's eyes and she realized that she had fallen asleep, and it surprised her that her mind had allowed her to rest when it was so filled with worry and doubt. Sharply, she looked over to Gimli, and said, "Gimli, I have been thinking about your quandary." The Dwarf turned to look at her, surprised, and she wondered if she hadn't interrupted his thoughts on that very subject. "I think," she said, putting her hand thoughtfully to her cheek, "that you are wrong to think that any wrought-metal could be suitable housing for Galadriel's gift." The Dwarf opened his mouth unhappily to reply, but she held up her hand to stop him. "I mean only that the beauty of the Elves is in their cohesion with nature – not of wringing something else out of it entirely. I think that any metalworking or unnaturally wrought casing would be an ill-host to something that spoke to you of Galadriel's everlasting beauty and grace." Her words gave the Dwarf pause, and he turned back to the front of the boat, twisting his fingers into his thick beard thoughtfully. He nodded, and grunted gruffly, but otherwise did not make any response to Aila's thoughts.

Behind her, Legolas smiled and said, "_Ci vain a hael_, Aila."

She turned her head to catch sight of the Elf, and smiled as he resumed his paddle-strokes. "You've said that to me before," she accused, though her voice came more flatly than she intended. Regardless, Legolas caught her mood and recognized the small jibe.

He responded in kind: "Yes, in Imladris. And I meant it then." His fingers grasped a small lock of her dirty, greasy hair, and he laughed, "And perhaps it was more true then. I don't think any could be accused of finding your hair attractive in this manner!"

She smiled softly, and lifted a hand to bat his away from her hair.

And so the Company floated onward. South, ever south; south on the river that bore them onward to whatever Fate would give them. Aila looked constantly to Boromir, whose boat was second in line and immediately before hers. She stared numbly at the back of his head, at the broad expanse of his shoulders, at the movement of the paddle in his hands. Would he survive the coming days?

. . .

_Istog peded edhellen?_ = Do you speak the language of the Elves?

_No_, _pedin edhellen_ = Yes, I speak Elvish.

_Mae bennen _= Well spoken.

_Elio nin _= Help me [to do a task]

_Ci vain a hael_ = You are both beautiful and wise.


	28. The Breaking of the Fellowship

Author's Note: Apologies for the delay in posting. Obviously, this is an incredibly important chapter and so it took longer to write (and is quite a bit longer itself) than the other updates so far. Expect big things from this chapter and the next!

As always, hope you enjoy.

. . .

Ch. 28 The Breaking of the Fellowship

It was raining.

It had begun as only an infrequent and generally modest drizzle – just a light, refreshing mist which floated lighter-than-air; a delicate and perfunctory butterfly's-kiss of moisture on Aila's face. It was only enough to give her clothing a light sheen of infinitesimal water-drops, which sat placidly on top of the threads but did not sink in to wet the fabric. But out of this light mist, fully-formed drops began to precipitate, and their weight caused them to fall out of the sky where once they floated. First, as only teasing and insubstantial flecks on Aila's cheek, and they left tell-tale blotches on the shoulders of her cloak, dark and uneven. Aila raised her chilled fingers to lift the hood of her elven cloak over her face, stretching the fabric as far forward as she could to shield her. Her leggings were becoming polka-dotted where random raindrops had fallen, and so Aila pulled the cloak around her tightly to cover her bent knees as well, tugging on the thick fabric to cocoon herself in its protection. The drops gained weight and frequency. The heavens were opened and they wept rapid tears onto the heads of the Company; and a pressing storm began to gather, whipping up a wind which threw back their hoods and ruffled the fabric around their shoulders, and it drove the rain into the river with such ferocity that it was as though the water were in a frenzied hurry to rejoin its cousin in the running river.

They did not dare call out to Aragorn for fear of attracting attention from more than just their leader, but after a few minutes of pelting rain the Ranger turned and gestured to the other two boats to follow him forward. He waved his hand emphatically, driving both Boromir and Legolas to move their boats closer to his. When they were all close enough, the man called out: "We cannot yet rest here; but we are also not far from where I mean to take us. Paddle swift! and we shall all have rest sooner, and out of this rain." The howling wind stole his words away again as soon as they had reached each intended pair of ears. His determination to lead them onward gave Aila sudden fear. Had they already come so far? She tried to convince herself that they had only just left Lothlórien, that she had a few more days to make her decision, that they had a few more days until they made Amon Hen – that Boromir had a few more days of life.

The fabric of Aila's hood was thoroughly soaked by the driving rain, and so she lifted a swift hand to sweep the sodden cloth back from her forehead. And she shook out her hair, running her fingers quickly underneath its mass at the nape of her neck to expose its entire length to the pressing rain that fell from the sky. It did not take long for the water to work its way into each strand of her long hair, adding weight and wave to her darkening mane.

And behind her, Legolas had apparently paused in his paddling, because Aila felt his hand on her shoulder, his long fingers resting delicately on the dripping locks of her hair that splayed across the dampened fabric of her cloak. His fingertips pressed softly through the thick material of the cloak and his voice floated forward to her ears, and he asked why she had thrown back her hood.

"Why fight?" she asked, shrugging, and she turned to look at the Elf. She spoke of more than the rain, but of this Legolas couldn't know, and so he stared out at her from the shielding confines of his own hood without even a dim notion of her true intent. Aila, who could see this, said, entirely for his benefit, "If nature wills that we be wet, then one way or another, we'll be wet. Don't you find it easier – more enjoyable, more restful – to give in? To accept the hand that we've been dealt and try to find what little might be relished?" She paused, and lifted her face to the sky. "Isn't it freeing to give up control, and let the rain wash over you?" And though it was phrased as a question, Aila realized she had spoken it as a clear statement. "There's something nice about it, anyway – giving in; letting the water run down your face. It's easy to find the pleasure in it, letting yourself go and getting soaked through."

Suddenly, Legolas' hand was at his own brow and he swept back his dark green hood, almost simultaneously pulling his long golden hair from the collar of his cloak to expose it to the rain. As he did so, he grinned at Aila – a broad and cheeky smirk. Aila watched indulgently for a few moments as the water quickly crowned his hair with moisture, and little currents of rainwater like tiny streams ran down the features of his handsome face, dripping from the tip of his nose and off of his chin. He blinked rain from his eyes with thick, dripping lashes. And still he smiled. She returned it with a half-hearted one of her own, though her eyes were vacant, and she turned to look forward again. To Legolas, she knew, they had just shared an endearing moment; had experienced, real-life, a scene torn from the script of any romantic comedy in which the quirky female lead divulges an adorable and unbearably whimsical trait which inspires her suitor's character development. Or, alternatively, as one of those indie movies about wacky friends whose oddities are only known and appreciated by one another. She allowed Legolas his fantasy.

In truth, Aila was not gaining any pleasure from the feeling of the rain slapping against her forehead, or the cold torrents of water which were running down her face. The water dripped from her hair, clouded her sight, impinged on her breathing as she often inhaled as must moisture as air; the water seeped through her cloak to wet her shoulders, and she could feel errant rivers of the chill water running down her back. No, Aila was not engaged in some whimsical enjoyment of nature's might. She was not seeking pleasure from the rain. Rather, she was willing that the water wash away the dirt which had accumulated, both on her body and in her soul. She was willing the water to cleanse her of the choice which she was battling, to remove any need that she make such a decision; to absolve her of torment and sinful uncertainty. She leaned her head back, jutting her chin out aggressively to the blackened sky, and she closed her eyes against the driven rain. And for Legolas' sake, in case he could see her face, she tried to contort her features into what might have been a smile – perhaps he would imagine that she were still thoroughly enjoying her transcendental experience – but to Aila, the expression felt more alike to a painful grimace.

And though she had intended that the water be cleansing to her, Aila rather found that the rain was having the opposite effect. Moisture hung heavy in her hair, added weight to her clothing and cloak so that they pulled persistently against her shoulders; raindrops fell from the tip of her nose and clung uncomfortably around the edges of her nostrils; and even when she had blinked the former outriders of raindrops from her eyelashes, a new invasion of water dampened her vision and stung her eyes. The rain was making her body as miserable as her heart had felt for the past week, and now that she had allowed the rain to have such a hold on her physical discomfort, there was no going back. She could not simply rearrange her hood and become dry once more; as she could not simply decide to avoid her inevitable and undeniable choice. Soon enough, they would reach Amon Hen. Soon enough, Frodo would be forced to make his own difficult choice. Soon enough, Aila would be faced with a daunting challenge: but how could she choose, knowing that she selected between ensuring the Fate of the Company by sacrificing Boromir, or possibly risking it all by saving his life.

Aila was stuck; and so she stared forward miserably into the rain.

Puddles had begun forming in the bottom of the boats. In front of her, Aila could hear Gimli as he grumbled deeply and darkly in his native tongue, and he tapped the toes of his boots indelicately into the puddle forming around his feet. And behind her, Aila could hear the repetitive dip of Legolas' paddle in the river. The sound should have been reassuring, but for a moment she was only angry at Legolas; angry that the Elf put in such effort to drive her forward – to drive her on toward her choice, to Parth Galen, and to Boromir's death. The rain, however, washed away this anger and she felt only grief. Sickening, stomach-twisting, tooth-grinding, back-aching grief.

The river's current had slowed noticeably now and they found themselves in a broadened confluence – not quite a lake, but here the river was wide and very slow-moving; pooling, as she knew, and preparing for its quick descent down nearby Rauros-falls. Though she couldn't hear the roar of the waterfall over the roar of the rain and the whistling wind, she knew that her hopes had been for naught. Aragorn led them now along the right leg of this mighty confluence, bringing their small parade of boats to the western shore. And though the sky had darkened and the heavy rain effectively cloaked all that was about them, Aila could still just barely see, through the pouring rain, the shape of a tall island at the center of this river-lake. And she knew its name: Tol Brandir. To their right, Aragorn led them to the foot of Amon Hen, the Hill of the Eye and the Seat of Seeing. The day was come. Her decision was upon her.

Perhaps Aila was crying; she couldn't tell. If there were tears on her cheeks, they were intermingled and utterly lost amid the miniscule rivers of raindrops falling down her face.

. . .

They pulled their boats from the water up onto a grassy shore, which rose gently to a wide lawn before disappearing to the foot of Amon Hen, which was shrouded by a sparse collection of trees ringing the Hill of the Eye. Once their boats were safely out of the water, they made for the little shelter which these trees could provide, though the rain was quickly letting up. The members of the Company huddled together beneath the trees, their hoods still raised to protect against the large drops which occasionally accumulated in the thick canopy of the trees and proved too weighty for their leafy abode. They shared a small dinner of the remains of their food store; they now had only _lembas_.

The rain ceased.

None spoke any word, but they all began to settle in to rest for the night. Aila knew that this was the last night they would spend together in fellowship – but what she did not know was whether she would see Frodo and Sam again, or indeed any member of the Company once their ranks were split asunder the following day. What would become of any of them? And though Aila knew that she should be reassuring Frodo, or speaking softly to Sam, or quelling the fear which she knew was rising up in Aragorn's heart; or, at the very least, knew she should be feeling some sort of sentimentality, she could not overcome the boulder of doubt which sat in her stomach, which weighted down her heart. Her mind was capable of one thought, and one thought alone. Boromir.

She had spread her cloak down on the muddy grass, stretching it out to cover as much ground as she could manage, and she sat atop it, her knees drawn in close to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around her shins. Aila hugged her legs close to her and thrust her chin forward to rest on the peak of her right kneecap. Absently, she listened to the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears, feeling its pulse as much as she heard it: _thud-thump, thud-thump_. Its cadence was slow and heavy, its unhurried melody accompanied by the erratic _drip-plop_ of remnant raindrops and the everlasting one-note song of the river's flow, a swift and repetitive _shhh-whoosh_. Aila counted her heartbeats, measured her breaths to them, and she wondered how many more notes this instrument would produce in the song of her life. How many more heartbeats did Boromir's life hold? Was his sonata near to its end? She shivered, both due to this thought and the chill of the night-air. Again, she listened to the thudding of her own heart. It was a haunting and despairing requiem.

And though it was the Man from Gondor who so occupied her mind, it was Legolas, of course, who appeared beside her.

The Elf knelt down and in one swift, fluid motion swung his cloak over her, wrapping it around her shoulders and draping its length over her knees. His gesture barely roused her from her thoughts and Aila made a muddled gesture as though to return his cloak to him; but Legolas stayed her movement with a gentle hand, and he reminded her that he would not be cold. But as he pulled his hand back, Aila's body flew into action: she hastily flung aside the folds of his cloak which impeded her arm, and her hand shot out to grab his before it had been completely removed from her reach. The reaction was instant, instinctual: Aila's battered and embittered heart had reached out to Legolas for familiar comfort. Her fingers wrapped hurriedly around his, and the feeling of his skin beneath her fingertips was simultaneously relieving and exhilarating, like a gasping breath of air for one that didn't realize she had been drowning. Legolas accepted her hand, and he held her grip tightly as he sat down beside her. Her fingers soaked in strength from his warm skin.

But even after a few moments, Aila realized that this modest contact was not enough; not enough to suppress the rising tide of fear and anxiety and ambivalence within her. She relaxed her hugging grip on her knees then, and she leaned to the side so that her shoulder rested heavily against Legolas' arm. Automatically, his leaned his weight into her to support her slumped dependence. Again, this measured increase in touch gave her some succor, another breathless taste of that sweet, life-giving air; but it was still not enough. And so she craned her neck, reaching with her cold cheek to find Legolas' shoulder, and she rested there for a moment, her temple pressed into the apex of his shoulder. It was comforting here, resting against him, and she could feel his body move with each softly inhaled breath; and she felt him shift to rest his own head against hers, his cheek pressed against the crown of her head, and she saw his blonde hair spill down to mix with her own dark locks across his chest and shoulder. And still: it was not enough. Desperate and searching, she turned her whole body, reorienting her positioning so that she could press her torso against his, and she swung her legs around so that they rested just beside his. She released his hand so that she could wrap both of her arms around his waist in a hugging embrace. And again, for but a moment, it still was not enough; until she felt his arms wrap around her as well, pulling her against him and securing the warm cloak around her shoulders and body. His cheek was still resting against the top of her head and she could feel his breath moving through the strands of her hair, and he turned his head ever so slightly so that his lips were pressed into her hair. The thudding of her heart resumed a normal cadence, the pain which twisted her stomach waned, and she gladly closed her aching, stinging eyes.

"You should rest," he whispered, and she barely remembered to listen to his words because she was so focused on the feeling of his lips moving in her hair, distracted by the feel of his breath twisting through the small, wispy hairs along her hairline, engrossed in memorizing the safe feeling of his arms around her waist. Such was her distraction that she couldn't be sure, in the end, which had forced the pair of the them to lean back, seamlessly moving, still embraced, to lie down – though she wouldn't be at all surprised to know that it had been herself, pressing with her own weight to pull Legolas back with her – but in a few moments, she was comfortably lying atop her elven cloak, Legolas' own cloak wrapped around her, held secure by his arms. Her head rested in the crook of his shoulder and she allowed the feeling of reassurance and security to wash over her, overwhelm her harassed thoughts, and placate her nerves. And for the first time in many days, Aila's thoughts were focused not on Boromir, or on any worry at all, but rather pleasantly on Legolas. She couldn't deny that she felt safe as she lay in his arms, that even being near to him suppressed her anxiety, that she craved his touch to heal her aching worries. It was also evident to her that their friendship had greatly evolved, that they had become irreparably close. And however vehemently another, perhaps more progressive, version of herself might have disallowed her dependence on the Elf, it was undeniably apparent to her now that she needed Legolas, that she could never survive without his companionship. And so she knew, whatever may come, that she could not stand to be parted from him.

. . .

In the middle of the night, Aragorn came to wake Legolas so that the Elf could take his turn on watch. But when the Ranger found his two companions, sleeping serenely and intertwined, the scene gave him pause. He thought that he had not seen such a peaceful look on Aila's face since then they had left Lothlórien. One of Legolas' hands was lifted to Aila's hair, his fingers twisted in the thick strands, and his chin was buried in her hair around the crown of her head. And Aragorn smiled, small and involuntary, and he achingly thought of Arwen – who so dutifully waited upon his return. And rather than disturb the two before him, Aragorn instead turned and resumed the watch, taking for himself Legolas' duty so that his friends might not be disturbed in their tender embrace.

. . .

The day came like fire and smoke; low in the east there were black bars of clouds, imminent and fuming like the plumes of a great, macabre fire. The rising sun lit these clouds from beneath with flames of murky red.

Legolas was sitting up beside Aila, and she saw that his eyes were turned to the rising sun. He frowned as he slotted his eyes against the bright, crimson light. "The day dawns red," he remarked slowly, turning the words distastefully on his tongue, and there was a distinct sense of ill-foreboding in his voice. Aila easily read his apprehensive expression.

"It is also an ill-omen where I am from," she said, her face also turned to the east, and her dark eyes were lit with a nuanced pink hue from the red light thrown by the clouds. "_Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning_," she recited, shaking her head at the specter in the east. She pulled Legolas' cloak tightly around her shoulders to ward off the chilled morning air. "It means a rough day ahead. And I fear it shall not be different for us, though we are not now subject to the whims of the sea." And in her thoughts, she recited something else: a familiar poem, which sprang to her mind as easily as the sun rose free from the distant horizon. The words came unbidden and poignant: _The Red Sun rises, without thought, and is alike to all_. Her heart thudded with each syllable. _Filling all with oblivion_. She did not like to think on it.

Legolas and Aila rose to join the other members of the Company for breakfast. All together, they moved farther out onto the damp grass of Parth Galen's wide lawn, and there, beneath the quickly rising sun, they shared a breakfast of _lembas_. Aila's stomach felt too twisted and bloated to eat.

After a time, breaking the silence of the morning, Aragorn's voice came softly. "The day has come at last," he said, turning to the collected Company and seating himself between them and the river behind him. "The day of choice which we have long delayed. What shall now become of our Company that has traveled so far in fellowship? Shall we turn west with Boromir and go to the wars of Gondor; or turn east to the Fear and Shadow; or shall we break our fellowship and go this way and that, as each may choose?" He paused at this last, and it seemed the worst choice to them all. "Whatever we do must be done soon," said the Ranger again, at last. "We cannot long halt here. The enemy is on the eastern shore, we know; but I fear that the Orcs may already be on this side of the water." None made any response, and they all sat quietly, stealing glances at one another like schoolchildren who had been asked a question that none of them knew or wished to answer. The silence yawned open between them.

"Well, Frodo," said Aragorn at last, his voice heavy with a sigh, "I fear that the burden is laid upon you. You are the Bearer appointed by the Council. Your own way you alone can choose. In this matter I cannot advise you." And he paused again, before he said conclusively, and not a little obvious pain, "I am not Gandalf ... and though I have tried to bear his part, I do not know what design or hope he had for this hour, if indeed he had any. Most likely it seems that if he were here now the choice would still wait on you. Such is your fate."

Frodo stared at his toes, and he was a long while in responding. Eventually he said, in a hurried tone, "I know that haste is needed, yet I cannot choose!" His blue eyes were wide and desperate. They fell again to the ground. "The burden is heavy. Give me an hour longer, and I will be speak: Let me be alone!"

Aragorn looked at the Hobbit with pity, and he nodded his head slowly. "Very well, Frodo son of Drogo," the Ranger said softly, and yet his tone was official. "You shall have an hour, and you shall be alone." The Man looked to the other members of the Company, holding each gaze for a few moments. "We will stay here for a while. But do not stray far, or out of call."

And so Aila watched as the Hobbit disappeared into the meager forest, keeping her eyes on his fleeting figure until, at last, his hairy heel disappeared behind a large tree-trunk and he was entirely lost to her vision. Her eyes turned involuntarily and automatically to Boromir, and she saw that the Man also watched Frodo's departure. She couldn't stand to look at the Man from Gondor, nor could her nerves allow her to sit quietly while she waited, agonizing, for Boromir's silent departure from the Company as well; and so she went to the water's edge, mimicking as though she was washing her face in the cold water. At first, she did indeed splash some of the freezing water on her face, and it was surprisingly refreshing for a moment. The water dripped from her nose as she hunched over the water's edge, not bothering to dry her face as she stared at her own reflection in the murky water. She could only just barely make out the features of her face in the water's ever-moving surface, but she could see the fear and anxiety that was writ across her expression, and she could feel those same anxieties twisting her intestines, constricting them around her stomach until it felt as though the entirety of her bowels were rising up into her chest to drown her heart and lungs. She retched into the water, a gut-wrenching dry heave which tore at the soft flesh of her throat and ripped clawed fingers through her lungs. A long, thin tendril of spittle connected her mouth to the water's surface, and once the spasms in her gut subsided, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, roughly separating this mucal strand. She splashed more of the cold water onto her face. And this time, she touched her face in an almost prayerful way, pressing her finger tips into her forehead, massaging the bones in her round cheeks, tracing the outline of her jaw, latching softly onto the lobes of her ears. She closed her eyes and listened to the movement of the water for a long time, but nothing could vanquish the choking fear that immobilized her lungs and churned her stomach.

When she returned to the rest of the Company, they were sitting in a rough circle and talking. Her eyes immediately scanned the individuals that constituted the circle. Boromir was already gone. She sat down beside Legolas with an air of finality. Her thoughts were quiet and her stomach felt eerily settled; her throat burned. Aragorn's voice caught her attention again.

"He is debating which course is the most desperate, I think," said the Ranger, confiding his thoughts in the other members of their Fellowship. "And well he may. It is now more hopeless than ever for the Company to go east, since we have been tracked by Gollum, and must fear that the secret of our journey is already betrayed. But Minas Tirith is no nearer to the Fire and the destruction of the Burden," he said, and Aila could hear the obvious warning in his words. He amended himself by saying, "We may remain there for a while and make a brave stand; but the Lord Denethor and all his men cannot hope to do what even Elrond said was beyond his power: either to keep the Burden a secret, or to hold off the full might of the Enemy when he comes to take it. Which way would any of us choose in Frodo's place? I do not know. Now indeed we miss Gandalf most." At this, Aragorn looked sadly to the ground in front of him and did not meet the eyes of any other.

"Grievous is our loss," agreed Legolas, and his voice was endearingly soft and comforting. Still, Aragorn did not look up to meet the Elf's gaze, though it was clear Legolas was trying to assuage the Man's fears. "Yet we must make up our minds without his aid. Why cannot we decide, and so help Frodo?" he asked, spreading his hands in front of him to the rest, compelling them to think on his words. "Let us call him back and then vote! I should vote for Minas Tirith," he said decidedly. He was surprised then, and could not fail to notice, when Aila's head turned sharply to look at him, and she took a rapid, loud breath. She was astonished to hear him rally for Minas Tirith, though she realized she could not blame his desire to avoid Mordor.

"And so should I," grumbled Gimli in agreement a moment later. His hand rose to his chest thoughtfully. "We, of course, were only sent to help the Bearer along the road, to go no further than we wished; and none of us is under any oath or command to seek Mount Doom. Hard was my parting from Lothlórien." He paused, and the hairs of his beard obviously trembled. "Yet I have come so far, and I say this: now we have reached the last choice, it is clear to me that I cannot leave Frodo. I would choose Minas Tirith, but if he does not, then I follow him."

They were each silent for a moment, until Legolas' voice rose again to break the stillness. "And I too will go with him," he said, nodding to the Dwarf. "It would be faithless now to say farewell."

"It would indeed be a betrayal, if we all left him," agreed Aragorn, and he finally looked up from the ground and looked between Legolas and Gimli for a moment. And he gave one apologetic glance to Aila before he continued. "But if he goes east, then all need not go with him; nor do I think that all should. That venture is desperate: as much for eight as for three or two, or one alone." He took a deep breath, and seemed to inflate himself up again, so that his shoulders seemed broader and he sat up straighter, and he exuded more authority than he had a moment ago. "If you would let me choose," he said, "then I should appoint three companions: Sam, who could not bear it otherwise; and Gimli; and myself." Aila noticed that Legolas sat up straighter beside her, alarmed at having been left out of Aragorn's plan, but the Ranger looked hard at the Elf for a moment, his glance shifted quickly to Aila, and then he looked back to Legolas decidedly. "And though I do not know where Aila is meant next, it is plain to me that you, Legolas, should remain with her wherever she need go. I see that it is quite evident that you are not to be divided." The Man held Aila's gaze now with soft gray eyes, and there was a hint of warmth and intimate knowledge in those eyes; and it was yet another of the Ranger's enigmatic expressions which Aila didn't fully understand or couldn't interpret at all. "And Boromir," he continued, after sharing that extended look with Aila, "Boromir will return to his own city, where his father and his people need him; and with him the rest should go, or at least Meriadoc and Peregrin."

"That won't do at all!" cried Merry, leaning forward, his eyebrows raised high on his forehead in incredulity. Beside him, Pippin's face was equally twisted in a look of shock, betrayal, and utter denial. Aila had never before seen the Hobbits so taken with expressions of anger before. "We can't leave Frodo!" Merry asserted, staring insistently at each of the others. "Pippin and I always intended to go wherever he went, and we still do."

"We must stop him," said Pippin abruptly, as though taken up by the sudden idea. "And that is what he is worrying about, I am sure," the Hobbit amended, saying also: "He knows we shan't agree to his going east. And he doesn't like to ask anyone to go with him, poor old fellow. Imagine it: going off to Mordor alone!"

Pippin's last words caused an uncomfortable hush to descend over the Company, and they each shifted uneasily and looked to the ground. Aila's eyes turned warily to the trees, and her mind was full only of thoughts of Boromir, and of Frodo, lost in the trees. "Begging your pardon," rose Sam's voice out of this disquieting hush, and his voice was meek but sure. "But I don't think you understand my master at all." His voice rose to greater volume and confidence: "He isn't hesitating about which way to go. Of course not! Mr. Frodo ... he knows he's got to find the Cracks of Doom, if he can. But he's _afraid._ Now it's come to the point, he's just plain terrified. That's what his trouble is. Of course he's had a bit of schooling, so to speak – we all have – since we left home, or he'd be so terrified he'd just fling the Ring in the River and bolt." Sam paused here a moment, his cheeks flushed, and he seemed to think deeply on his own words. "But he's still too frightened to start," the Hobbit began again, nodding his head vigorously, as though to convince them with pressing insistence of his own veracity. "And he isn't worrying about us either: whether we go along with him or not. He knows we mean to – That's another thing that's bothering him. If he screws himself up to go, he'll want to go alone. Mark my words! We're going to have trouble when he comes back. For he'll screw himself up all right, as sure as his name's Baggins." He finished, still nodding decisively. And then he gave a mighty shrug of his shoulders and a feverish frown. "And what's the good of Minas Tirith anyway? To him, I mean, begging your pardon, Master Boromir – " but his words caught in his throat when Sam turned to address Boromir, and found the place where the Gondor Man had sat empty. Boromir had long before disappeared into the trees, after Frodo.

For a while, Aila knew, the members of the Company spoke on Boromir's recent queer behavior, but she couldn't listen. Her eyes were on her boots again, and her ears were listening beyond the edges of their circle, out into the concealing reach of the nearby trees. The time was coming, she knew. What would she do? Still, she could not decide. Every thought, every argument for or against, every paralyzing fear which she had struggled with since leaving Lothlórien was now upon her simultaneously, and had increased in strength one-hundredfold. She felt wild and pathless and powerless. Out of control. Sam's voice rang out again to catch her attention.

"This waiting is horrible!" he exclaimed, never knowing how diminished was his discomfort when compared to her own. "Surely the time is up?"

"Yes," responded Aragorn, gazing up to the sky. The sun was sitting high in the sky now, bright and warm, shining happily down on the beleaguered Company. "The hour is long passed. The morning is wearing away."

And then, as though choreographed – as perhaps Fate had meant it – Boromir came out of the woods. He looked worn, as a man would look after having been lost in the desert for days. His lips were gray and chapped, and his light brown eyes looked pale and washed out; there were leaves in his hair. And, Aila noticed, one gloved hand was clutching tightly to the Horn of Gondor.

"Boromir!" Aragorn exclaimed, and he stood with the rest of them as they leapt up in surprise. They all watched Boromir expectantly, and Aila saw, from the corner of her eyes, that Aragorn's hand rested on his sword hilt, though he did not draw it out. "Where have you been, Boromir," the Ranger asked, and he could not hide the hint of suspicion in his voice. His gray eyes were dark as he watched the Gondor Man's approach. "Have you seen Frodo?"

"Yes," replied the Man, and his eyes fell to the ground as he said darkly, "and no. Yes: I found him some way up the hill and I spoke to him. I urged him to come to Minas Tirith and not to go east. I grew angry and he left me. He vanished. I have never seen such a thing happen before, though I have heard of it in tales. He must have put the Ring on. I could not find him again. I thought he would return to you."

The Company erupted in a frenzy of confused words and mixed actions. Frodo vanished! they exclaimed. It would not do, grumbled Gimli, that the Bearer be lost to the woods.

"And is that all you have to say?" Aragorn asked of Boromir, and still his wary gray eyes had not faltered from Boromir's face. But the Man would say no more.

"This is bad!" exclaimed Sam, fidgeting where he stood and wringing his hands. He looked insistently to Aragorn, and Legolas, and Gimli. "We must try to find him at once. Come on!" And with that, he turned to race into the trees. Merry and Pippin ran, shouting, after the other Hobbit, their high voices raised in calling Frodo's name.

"Wait a moment!" cried Aragorn, as the Hobbits ran off. His voice was harried and exasperated. "We must divide into pairs, and arrange – here, hold on!" But Legolas and Gimli were already running. "Wait!" cried the Ranger again, hopelessly. To no effect. A sudden panic had fallen over the Company. "We shall all be scattered and lost," groaned Aragorn to Aila, who still stood, frozen, on the grass of Parth Galen. Boromir, also, remained, his eyes dark. "Boromir!" shouted Aragorn to him, "I do not know what part you have played in this mischief, but help now! Go after those two young hobbits, and guard them at the least, even if you cannot find Frodo. Come back to this spot, if you find him, or any traces of him. I shall return soon." Boromir nodded, and he looked relieved to have been given a task to free his mind of whatever trouble had been following on his heels. He turned and raced into the trees after Merry and Pippin. Aragorn turned to Aila. "Wait here," he said, his eyes wide, and she nodded obediently, and watched as he turned and disappeared into the trees. She heard him calling after Sam.

And though it was tempting to remain – tempting to stay here, beneath the merry sun on the grassy lawn of Parth Galen, and willfully ignore the coming events – Aila knew that she could not remain. She had to give Frodo his chance to escape, and so, after a deep breath which did little to calm the frantic thrumming of blood in her veins, she ran into the trees.

She had not gone far into the forest when she came upon Sam; and the Hobbit stood, small and insignificant amongst the tall trees, with his hand pressed to his forehead, his eyes screwed tightly closed in frenzied, desperate thought. Aragorn had already raced ahead, probably, in his desperation to reach the Seat of Seeing. Sam's eyes flew open again when he heard her nearing footsteps, and she fell to her knees in front of him, breathing heavily. She knew the content of his thoughts, and his wide brown eyes searched hers.

"_Think, _Sam," she urged, lifting her hands to his shoulders and shaking lightly. "Think; you know where to go!"

The Hobbit's eyes rolled like mad as his brain slowly worked, Aila could see him surreptitiously chewing the inside of his right cheek. Suddenly, his eyes were alight with brilliant fire and he gazed, wide-eyed, at Aila. "Back to the boats!" he cried, throwing his arms up and pushing Aila's hands from his shoulders. He cried to her again, jubilantly, as though in celebration, though his voice was desperate; "Back to the boats, Sam, like lightning!" And Aila followed after the running Hobbit: back to the river, back to the boats, off to find Frodo before he disappeared into the East.

She held back as Sam rushed across the wide lawn of Parth Galen, and his feet flew underneath him as he neared the water's edge. A boat, moved by an unseen force, had slipped into the water. Sam's hands waved desperately in the air, as though attracting the attention of nearby aircraft.

"Coming, Mr. Frodo!" he shouted, his voice bright and strained. His hands still waved wildly. "Coming!" The hobbit ran headlong into the shallows of the river, soaking his pants up to the knee, and he leapt for the edge of the small, elvish boat. He missed by a meter, and his curly head disappeared beneath the water. Without thinking, Aila moved again, racing forward across the grass to save the drowning Hobbit. But even before she could reach the water's edge, Sam was lifted from the water, raised up, once more, by an unseen force. And the Hobbit, sputtering and wailing, was brought again to the shallow water as he clung to the side of the boat. Frodo reappeared, sitting in the previously unoccupied boat, his entire left sleeve soaked with river water, and his hand holding tightly to Sam's collar. With much combined effort, they managed to haul the second hobbit into the boat.

"Oh, Mr. Frodo!" Aila heard Sam exclaim. "That's hard, trying to go without me and all! If I hadn't a guessed right, where would you be now?"

Frodo's eyes were locked with Aila's, where she stood only ten feet from him at the water's edge. He looked warily at her before he responded to Sam, almost sadly, "Safely on my way."

"Safely!" was Sam's incredulous response. "All alone and without me to help you?" The Hobbit rapidly shook his head, shaking water from the curly tips like a rogue dog. "I couldn't have a borne it – it'd have been the death of me."

This sentence tore Frodo's eyes from Aila, and the blue-eyed Hobbit looked at his companion sharply. His voice was equally acute. "It would be the death of you to come with me, Sam." And with a resigned sigh, he said also, "I am going to Mordor."

"I know that well enough, Mr. Frodo. Of course you are," he nodded decisively. "And I'm coming with you."

And Frodo laughed, bright and surprised, his blue eyes were liquid for a moment. His expression turned somber once more, however, as he looked back to Aila. He said cautiously, "And are you coming with me? Will you not let me go into the East?" 

Aila did not say anything in response, and Frodo watched her, alarmed, as she stepped into the river. The water swirled around the toe of her boot, and then around her calves, and around her knees, and her thighs; Aila waded deep into the water, to the side of the boat where Frodo and Sam floated, prepared to the depart to the East. She waded out to them, until the water flowed around her hips, soaking her leggings and the bottom of her tunic, swelling into the interior of her boots, pooling around her sodden toes, chilling her legs to the bone. Aila held Frodo's gaze for a moment, and tried to communicate a solemn good-bye – and with measured movement, she placed her hands firmly on the edge of the boat's side. Frodo's eyes were wide with uncertainty. But instead of lifting herself into the boat, as he might have expected, she thrust it away from her, towards the East, with all of her might sending them on their way. And then she lifted a silent hand in farewell. She shared one last look with Frodo, and his great big blue eyes were wide and appreciative. He departed eastward, and she waded back out of the water. When her feet were on the dry shore once more, she knew that she had made her decision – finally. Knowing now that Frodo was safely off to Mordor, Aila knew also that the yarn of his Fate was thoroughly detached from theirs. And so she returned to their small camp, and she took up Núadin and she slung its modified belt across her shoulders, and she rushed, as quickly as her sodden feet and swollen boots were take her, into the forest where Merry, Pippin, and the Man from Gondor had disappeared. Boromir's life waited in her hands.

. . .

She drew Núadin from its sheath as she crashed through the forest, and the sword was glowing bright scarlet and humming loudly, spitting red, luminescent sparks as though violently angry. Its hilt felt hot in her hand. Her feet pounded the soft earth, heading in what Aila hoped was the right direction. Trees whipped past her and her wet legs were freezing, her muscles miserably unresponsive. A new fear, but an oddly familiar one, choked her heart now, as she thought she might be too late – even now when she had made her decision, she was afraid that she was moving too slowly, her legs too weighted and sodden, to save the Man's life. Her breath was ragged and heavy in her throat, her heart pounded in her ears, a tight ache developed in her neck. And then she heard it, its voice bright and clear in the dense sound of the forest: the Horn of Gondor. Its tone and import were unmistakable and it simultaneously froze her heart and spurred her legs to faster movement. "_Damn_," she swore, barely gasping the word between rushed, heavy breaths. Was she already too late? The Horn sounded again.

It was pure luck, then, that brought her crashing into her quarry. She found a largely deserted battle scene, and again it brought sudden fear into her thoughts that she was too late. Merry and Pippin were already gone, already taken by the large host of orcs, but Aila thought she could still vaguely hear the sound of their high voices on the wind, calling out as they were carried away. And then she caught sight of Boromir. He was still standing, still fighting; sword in one hand, Horn in the other. It seemed to Aila that the orcs had left only a small party behind to kill the Man from Gondor, including the orc-chieftain who she had stumbled immediately upon. In his gnarled hands, a bow and arrow were trained on Boromir's chest; the arrow was drawn fully back and was ready to be released. But Aila's sudden appearance surprised the orc and he turned, grunting, to her. He could not, however, realign his aim in time or raise any other weapon to rebuke her surprise attack (which, indeed, had surprised even her). Núadin found the orc's soft throat with ease and alacrity, and after only a moment's work he fell, dead, to the ground.

And the moment had an eerie quality ... an anticlimactic air. Had Aila changed Boromir's fate so easily, with only one swing of her sword?

She ran to the Man then, sword raised to help beat off the attack of the remaining orcs. As soon as she reached the Man, she heard a wild call from the forest: _Elendil, Elendil!_ Aragorn had heard Boromir's call, and he had arrived at last. And it was then – this was the moment – that relief washed over Aila, sweet and cool. She knew in that second that Boromir was safe. It was only a matter of several bloody moments before the remaining orcs were dispatched and the three of them stood, Aragorn and Boromir and Aila, silently in the quiet clearing. Birds were chirping in the trees not far off.

And Boromir – Boromir! He stood beside Aila, his chest heaving with each labored breath, and in his left hand he clutched the Horn of Gondor; it had been cloven in half by the wayward sword-swipe of an orc. But it was the only casualty of this battle. And a celebratory smile pulled at the corner of Aila's lips, and a feeling of supreme and pure and unrelenting relief overwhelmed her, and forced her eyes closed against her happy realization – the culmination of endless worrying and countless sleepless nights. The rough and embattled inside of her bottom lip attested to the mountain of relief which now swelled within her, and she listened attentively to each of Boromir's breaths, and she imagined that her own heartbeats were actually his. And so she reified, again and again, to herself that he was still standing, still breathing, still living. She opened her eyes again, and turned them on the Man, as though still not believing that he lived.

And what they saw confirmed once more the liberation of her heart. Boromir stood beside her, alive.

Alive.


	29. A Changed Fate

Author's Note: This chapter has been a long time coming, I know – and I'm so deeply sorry. This very particular scene (at the end of the chapter) has been in my head for so long that I wanted to be sure I got everything down correctly, to the minute detail. Frankly, I'm quite a bit chuffed with myself. I hope you'll agree.

Also, today was my birthday so consider this my birthday present to all of you, in the manner of Hobbits.

Enjoy.

. . .

Ch. 29 A Changed Fate

Alive. Alive! It was this thought alone, and no others, which inundated Aila's brain for any significant span of time after Aragorn's arrival into the fateful clearing. The overwhelming concept of this one thought seeped through the corridors of her thoughts and spilled over the edges of her mind, like a carbonated drink poured too quickly spilling over the edges of its cup – expanding and pressing against the inner walls of her skull so that her head ached. Yet she could not manage to bring any other thought to the forefront of her brain. Boromir was alive – alive! she thought again – and standing beside her, his broad shoulders expanding powerfully with each sharply drawn breath. Those breaths! Aila consciously matched her own raspy, gasping breaths to his, as though threading her life-force with Boromir's, and her thoughts were matched to the beating of her heart: erratic and stuttering. Boromir was alive, and her brain was struggling to fathom the implications, and the complications. She had challenged Fate, and she had won. It was as though she had lifted an omnipotent hand to rearrange the pieces on a chessboard, and in doing so had spared Boromir's life, as though according to her own whim. Perhaps she had never expected Boromir to survive, even if she had made the choice to save him – as she invariably had – but now Aila could hardly recognize the emotions and disconcerting fancies that were now washing over her shoulders and sweeping through her chest. She felt like a god, kind and benevolent, who, with the gentle sweep of her hand and a placid smile on her face, had saved the Man from Gondor. Had spared him. Had willed that he live, and not die. Had thwarted Fate. She felt an elated rush of supremacy over Fate.

And she was terrified. Oh god, what had she done?

Boromir was saved.

Aila's heart and mind were at war with one another now. Her heart told her that she had done right by protecting and saving Boromir – that she could not have been able to live with herself had she not at least attempted a rescue on his behalf. The haunting specter of Gandalf, like an uncomfortable tightness in her throat, reiterated this notion. But her mind argued back – equally compelling and overwhelmingly rational – that she had altered the Fate of the Company, and its purpose, by altering the Fate of this Man. And an evil, sneaky thought crept forward from the back of her mind, and she wondered if Boromir would prove to be worth the risk that she had taken. She felt instantly ashamed to find herself capable of such a thought. And so these binary poles of thought battled within her, alternatively convincing her of their veracity. The anxiety pulled her jubilant smile into a hauntingly grim, tight smirk which held no joy at all. In the end, Aila had made her choice. Perhaps rashly and perhaps she had made the wrong one, but maybe she was truly surprised that she had chosen at all. Indeed, she was impressed with her strength (that she had chosen to challenge Fate) and humbled by her weakness (that she could not stand to allow Boromir to die, however utilitarian her rationale may have been); she was proud of her decisive action but embarrassed by her foolishness; she was both triumphant and afraid; both powerful and weak in the knees; invincible, and wounded.

Boromir's voice – living, loud voice of the Man she had saved – rose up, in a bright lament, and the Man addressed Aragorn. "They have gone," he said, his words cursory and heavy-breathed, "the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them."

"Which way did they go?" demanded Aragorn, his eyebrows arched high over his eyes, and he hefted his sword busily as though prepared to run off into the forest after the Hobbits. There was an angry and desperate fire alight behind his eyes. He was fearsome to look at, and so Aila looked away into the trees to the west. "Was Frodo there?"

But Boromir could not say: he had been fighting and did not know in what direction the Orcs had taken Merry and Pippin. He did not know, also, whether the Orcs had likewise captured Frodo, or Sam. Aragorn re-sheathed his sword and laid his hands heavily on Aila's shoulders, turning her so that she was forced to look back to him, and his steely gray eyes bore into hers. She pressed her lips tightly together, listening only to the sound of her own blood thrumming in her ears. Her head still ached dully.

And from the western slopes of the hill came Legolas and Gimli: the Dwarf was still carrying his broad axe, its blade dark and bloody, and Legolas had drawn his long knife, its length sinister and threatening in his white hand. His arrows had been spent and the quiver sat empty on his back. A quick exchange of words caught both Elf and Dwarf up on the current standing of their situation. For a brief second, Aila's eyes locked with Legolas' and she wondered, amazed, that he did not know, could not tell, could not taste the taint of Boromir's changed Fate in air. Could the Elf not recognize that this scene – this very clearing – had been meant as the dying place of their friend from Gondor? Did he not have some intuition that things were not as they should have been? Aila had instead rendered this place, this clearing, wholly insignificant. Had she really expected that Legolas, upon first sight, would be alerted to the difference?

And though the Elf could not detect the change, did not recognize that Fate had been so foiled, he could see the wild thoughts and emotions which were flickering over Aila's face as he looked at her – though, again, he could not understand their content. In seeing her face, Legolas walked quickly to her, and he wrapped his arms around her shoulders in a comforting way and pulled her against his chest. She returned his embrace gratefully, pressing her cheek against his chest and closing her eyes against the dark green fabric of his tunic, breathing in his familiar and reassuring scent. His heart beat energetically against her earlobe. After a moment like this, the Elf began to speak, and Aila could hear the vibrations of his chest against her cheek even before his voice reached her ears. "Alas," he said, turning his head to survey the destruction in the clearing, and his fingers twined themselves in Aila's hair. "We have hunted and slain many Orcs in the woods, but we should have been of more use here." He paused and took a large, deep breath; but Aila did not move. Instead, she allowed herself to ride the gentle swell of his chest as he inhaled as though she were floating among the ocean waves. Being so near to Legolas erased all of her misgivings and only reinforced the feelings of strength and power which were shooting through her body like electricity, and there was a perceptible buzzing in her fingers where they were pressed into Legolas' back. All was well, she told herself, as she hugged the Elf tighter. Boromir was alive, and Legolas as well. And they were all together. All was well. The Elf continued, "We came when we heard the horn – but too late, it seems."

"And the Hobbits?" asked Gimli, his dark eyes cast angrily on the lifeless bodies of the Orcs which surrounded them. He tucked his broad axe into his belt and struck out with one iron boot to kick the side of one such corpse. A sickening, sloppy, wet sound accompanied this action. It should have made Aila cringe, should have made her sick to her stomach, but she did not hear it; she was too concerned with the pleasurable, electric tremors in her body, and with holding tight to the Elf beside her, and with keeping her eyes screwed tightly closed. "We may be certain," continued the Dwarf, "that Merry and Pippin are taken captive. But what of Frodo? Is he also captured?"

"I do not know," replied Aragorn, wearily. His eyes were again on the ground, and he gazed at the corpses sadly, as thought repentant.

Suddenly, Boromir cried out, and he lunged forward to a nearby lifeless body. The other three looked at him in surprise, and his cry even aroused Aila once more, bringing her to open her eyes and return to the clearing where they all stood. She watched, newly relaxed, as the Man pulled two small, broad blades from the ground beneath the Orc: the Lórien-sheathed blades of Merry and Pippin. "They were born by the hobbits," said Boromir, confirming their assumption, and for a few seconds they all fell unhappily silent.

Aragorn walked slowly to Boromir and took the two small blades from the Man, looking at them as sadly as though he were spying the lifeless form of a friend. "Well, now, if they still live, our friends are weaponless," he said, a grim note in his quiet voice. He lifted the small swords and tied both of them to his belt, saying, "I will take these things, hoping against hope, to give them back."

Legolas' arms began to loosen around Aila, and he slowly pulled away, though his left hand gave a lingering squeeze to her shoulder. She allowed him to let go, though she saw that he was watching her with an uncertain look, as though wondering whether he could, in fact, release her. But her heartbeat had slowed again to a normal cadence, and the anxious thrumming in her veins had subsided. Her body and mind had quieted, and so she gave Legolas a small smile, assuring him that she was alright. And she looked to Boromir, pride and love in her eyes, as a mother might look upon her child. "And I," said Legolas, after being given this surety that Aila had relaxed, "will take the arrows that I can find, for my quiver is empty." Aila went with him, then, to collect the black orc-arrows for his quiver, and thankfully she was not required to pull any from the corpses of their victims, but rather to cautiously extract the unused arrows from their dark quivers. A sudden thought took her, and froze her movement where she was bent over a particularly bloody body. And in spite of her initial revulsion, Aila decided that it would be quite meaningful ... profound, even – and so she led Legolas to the orc-chieftain whom she had slain, and whose arrows would have been the death of Boromir. Delicately and slowly, she drew these arrows from the Orc's quiver – these arrows which Fate had meant to slay the Man from Gondor – and she handed them to Legolas, wrapping his long fingers around their thin shafts. He accepted them with wide eyes, but only to remark on their unusual length and dark black feathers – only Aila knew the import of these few instruments of war. And suddenly, she felt an overwhelming satisfaction, and again the feeling of godly power swept over her shoulders. These arrows which had been intended for Boromir's death would, instead, be used to slay their enemies by Legolas' hand. The juxtaposition of intent was magnificently poetic – and Aila couldn't help but smile.

Legolas called Aragorn's attention to the long-shafted arrows he held, and the Ranger looked sharply at the Orcs which littered the ground in death. At length, he said darkly, "Here lie many that are not folk of Mordor. Some are from the North, from the Misty Mountains, if I know anything of Orcs and their kinds." And he paused for a moment, running his tongue over the insides of his teeth in a thoughtful way. His eyes were still on the Orcs. "And here are others strange to me. Their gear is not after the manner of Orcs at all." Indeed, as they looked, they saw that there were many goblin-soldiers of great stature, almost the size of a Man, swarthy and with slanted eyes, and thick legs. And their discarded weapons were short broad-blade swords, not scimitars as were the usual choice of Orcs. Aragorn pointed to a strange device which dominated the shield of a corpse near to him: it bore a large white hand amid a black field, and above that, a bright white S-rune. Aragorn said: "I have not seen these tokens before. What do they mean?"

"S is for Sauron," said Gimli, kicking again at the body of an Orc, his frown evident even through his thick beard. This time, Aila heard the sickening, soft thud of his kick, and she clenched her teeth together to try to ward away the sickness that immediately built up in her throat. "That is easy to read."

"Nay!" cried Legolas quickly, and there was an obvious note of pride in his voice. His eyebrows were knit tightly together as he looked at the Orcs at their feet, his lips turned down in a wide frown. "Sauron does not use the Elf-runes," he said decisively, and he was plainly glad for the distinction.

All were quiet for several minutes, each turning over the possible meaning for the unrecognizable device which these dead soldiers bore. At length, when still none spoke, Aila said instead, "S is for Saruman." Her words were met with more silence, but the tenor of the scene changed entirely. It felt as though a cloud had moved to cover the sun's light.

"There is evil afoot in Isengard, and the West is no longer safe," said Aragorn after a time, and his voice sounded final and remorseful. "It is as Gandalf feared: by some means the traitor Saruman has had news of our journey. It is likely too that he knows of Gandalf's fall. Pursuers from Moria may have escaped the vigilance of Lórien, or they may have avoided that land and come to Isengard by other paths. Orcs travel fast. But Saruman has many ways of learning news."

"Riddles!" cried Gimli, throwing his hands in the air, and he looked ready to aim another kick at one of the dead Orcs. Aila grimaced as she anticipated his movement, but the Dwarf only grumbled darkly and crossed his arms over his expansive chest.

"Aye," responded Aragorn, "but we must guess the riddles, if we are the choose our course rightly."

"Where, then, does our path now lead?" asked Legolas.

"Back to our camp, and the River," said Aragorn, after a few moments of contemplative silence. As soon as the words left his lips, he looked assured by them and nodded decisively. He held Aila's gaze only momentarily, and then he nodded once more. "We shall return there – and see if Frodo has not returned to the River's edge and awaits us there. Let us hope for that!"

Together, the five returned to their small and scattered camp. Their packs were strewn across the grass of Parth Galen in a loose and informal circle, attesting to their sudden departure from the site only an hour before. Aila's eyes were on the tall, formidable cliffs of Tol Brandir.

"Here is a strange tale to tell!" cried Legolas as soon as they gained the grassy lawn of Parth Galen. His sharp elven eyes were gazing forward to the bank of the river Anduin, and it was plain to see that only two elven boats rested on the muddy shore where previously there had been three. The Elf hurried forward, and with his keen eyes sought some clue over the ground, and also over the water. His eyes fixed on the far eastern shore, though it was beyond even his long sight. "There are only two boats upon the bank," he said finally, turning back to the others that had joined him on the riverbank. "I can see no trace of the other."

Aragorn hurried to action, and he crouched low, searchingly dipping his fingers into the mud near to the remaining boats as though touching the damp soil would provide him an answer, and he asked, "Have Orcs been here?" His softly spoken question was directed mainly to himself, but Gimli answered it anyway.

"I see no signs of them," said the Dwarf. "And Orcs would have taken or destroyed all the boats, and the baggage as well." Aragorn seemed to agree, for he stood up slowly and wiped the mud from his fingertips on the hem of his shirt. But still, his gray eyes did not rest, and his gaze wandered about the wide lawn of Path Galen, and across the scattered collection of their packs where they had thrown them earlier. "How then do you read this riddle?" asked Gimli after a pause.

"Two packs are missing," responded Aragorn slowly, as though still calculating its meaning in his thoughts. "And one is certainly Sam's: it was rather large and heavy. This then is the answer: Frodo has gone by boat, and his servant has gone with him. Frodo must have returned while we were all away. I met Sam going up the hill and told him to follow me; but plainly he did not do so. He guessed his master's mind and came back here before Frodo had gone." And for a moment, Aila was surprised that Aragorn laughed, a near-humorless, short-lived, and gasping laugh: "He did not find it easy to leave Sam behind!"

"But why should he leave us behind, and without a word?" asked the Dwarf, frowning even through his thick beard. "That was a strange deed!"

"And a brave deed," replied Aragorn. "Sam was right, I think. Frodo did not wish to lead any friend to death with him in Mordor. But he knew that he must go himself. Something happened after he left us that overcame his fear and doubt."

Legolas responded, his eyebrows raised in thoughtful consideration: "Maybe hunting Orcs came upon him, and he fled."

Aragorn's eyes turned from Elf to Man, and he stared at Boromir dolefully for a few moments before he replied. "He fled, certainly. But not, I think, from Orcs." Boromir did not return Aragorn's wary gaze, and his eyes were fixed on the eastern shore with a look that spoke of warring guilt and desire.

"Well," said Legolas, continuing his thought after a few moments of awkward silence between the two Men. "So much is at least now clear. Frodo is no longer on this side of the River: only he can have taken the boat. And Sam is with him; only he would have taken his pack."

Gimli nodded, grunting agreement. "Our choice, then, is either to take the remaining boats and follow Frodo, or else to follow the orcs on foot. There is little hope either way," he allowed, with another dark shake of his head. His fingers reached up to tangle in the thick hair of his beard. "We have already lost precious time."

"Let me think!" cried Aragorn, demanding, and his face turned again to the far eastern shore of the River. Even in profile, Aila could see the working of many thoughts across his face. "And now may I make the right choice," he whispered, prayerfully, and mostly to himself.

The others, acquiescent, quietly awaited the decision of their leader. Gimli himself busily gathered the scattered packed together and swiftly began the arduous process of discerning their contents. His broad, thick hands worked deftly at picking out which objects would be the most crucial, and which could be tossed aside no matter which direction the Ranger chose. Legolas, as though overseeing this action, stood still nearby; his tall, lithe body struck a statuesque profile as he stared into the east, barely sparing a glance to the Dwarf's busy movements. The Elf's nostrils occasionally flared, as though he were detecting a scent in the air – and perhaps a foul or worrisome one, judging by the tight set of his eyebrows – but he did not speak, or look to Aragorn, to influence their leader's decision. Aila stood uncomfortably, unsure what to do. She stood beside Legolas for a time, and watched, silently, Gimli's regimented packing system. As he came to her pack, she reached forward quickly to rescue it, and its contents, from his heavy-handedness (he was tossing aside many more things than she would have thought they could stand to spare). She imagined, immediately, that he would not find the small book and writing pen necessary, but these objects were indeed indispensable to her. And so she gathered her pack and leaned it against her foot so that it rested against her right ankle, and she reached down to take up Glamdring as well, slinging its modified belt across her shoulders so that the wizard's sword and her own, Núadin, formed a wide "x" across her back and shoulders. Once these things were done, a sweeping glance at her companions afforded her a sight of Boromir, and what she saw caused the pumping of her heart to choke and skip a beat, increasing its pace once more. The Man, who she had thought was also standing still, a mirror of Legolas, was actually a flurry of miniscule and inconsequential movements. His eyebrows raised and lowered on his forehead, his ears seemed to twitch beneath the sweaty mop of light brown hair, and his fingers were twitching erratically at his side. One hand still grasped the broken fragments of the Horn of Gondor, and those fingers were moving slowly, grinding the pieces of the Horn together, as though to remind himself of his irreparable loss. Sweat gleamed on the skin of his face. The corners of his mouth twitched as he looked east. His tongue shot out to wet his lower lip. He blinked drops of sweat from the corners of his eyes. He shifted his weight on his feet, and with each of these shifts it seemed to Aila that he moved slightly forward – toward the water's edge, toward the east, and toward Aragorn.

"Why do we tarry?" asked the Man from Gondor at last, and it was evident that he could no longer stand to watch Aragorn's silent rumination. "Our path is plain to me," he said, his toe tapping impatiently into the mud of the shore. The Ranger looked up, startled, and after only a moment's hesitation, he swept his open palm in an allowing gesture, inviting Boromir to elaborate his speech. The Man obliged. "Is it not our trust to protect and guide Frodo as far as we are willing and able? And perhaps others have flagged in that trust, but I see now that my path is clear before my feet! I cannot step aside to allow Frodo to travel, blind and unaided, into the certain death of Mordor."

None responded for the length of a full minute, until Legolas said, shrewdly, "Is it not still your plan to travel south – to return to your home in Gondor?"

"Nay," responded Boromir immediately, and his chest puffed out with an expression of pride and import – self-sacrificial determination. "I see now that, though I should be greatly wanted in the White City, Frodo is of greater need. I would follow him into the blackest depths, now, and I think that I cannot let him go east without the promise of my strength and protection. Our companionship weighs heavy on me."

Aila's heartbeat accelerated and the tingling in her nerves no longer felt like the thrumming of latent power, but rather the warning sense of oncoming danger.

Aragorn looked cautiously skeptical. "There is little we can do now to aid Frodo. It would be folly for us to travel together into the fires of Mordor. It is a desperate path. Perhaps Frodo will have a better chance without the addition to his company." And though Aragorn did not look to Aila, she nodded energetically at him, trying to encourage his skepticism and doubt in Boromir's path. The Man's words had frightened her, had caused a thickness to build up in her throat again. A fleeting – disgusting – thought made her regret saving Boromir's life, now that he rallied to travel east; a terrifying direction, a wrongful plan, a dangerous path. She quickly swallowed up the errant, black notion and quashed it down into the narrowest corner of her heart.

"You cannot be so foolish," said Boromir darkly, and his voice was low and harassed, and Aila thought she heard an edge of danger in the syllables of his words. "It is foolish indeed to trust in the inexperience and never-tested courage of two such young Halflings! There are orcs abroad – did we not see only an hour ago evidence that both the armies of Sauron and Saruman are bent to the same heinous task?" This reminder sobered the cautious looks on both Legolas and Gimli's faces, which Aila noticed without some worry and disturbance. "And Frodo is being stalked by Gollum, and more besides!" Boromir's voice rose into a persuasive, resolute crescendo. "It is certain death, should we allow him to persevere into the east without guidance and aide."

"We cannot follow him into Mordor," repeated Aragorn again, and Aila's heartbeat slowed, though not with relief. She heard within the tenor of Aragorn's voice that his certainty was flagging. Please, she begged, prayed, her eyes turned to the heavens. Her eyes remained determinedly fixed on the Ranger, as though she could force her thoughts into his head by staring at him long enough. Please.

"Then let us follow him to the very gates of that black country," persisted the Man from Gondor, and his voice was engagingly convincing. "If we cannot complete that last leg with him, we can at least ensure that he live to get the opportunity to perform his task. It is our duty – our trust! – as valiant and strong Men," he looked hard at Aragorn, his eyes glinting and smoldering in the sunlight with a devastating lust. His eyes moved also to Legolas and Gimli, and he appealed similarly to their own Races. "The Free Races!" he cried, his voice bright and fervent with violent pride. "Have we not the courage to continue in our task?"

Aila watched, her prayers unanswered, as Aragorn's resolve cracked and faded away. His expression was replaced with one of determined and ruthless agreement. "My mind is troubled," he acknowledged, though his expression looked assured. "But I see the truth in your words, Boromir, son of Denethor, lord of Gondor! Legolas, Gimli!" he shouted to the others, and he waved his hand in a broad sweeping gesture, indicating that they should move forward again to the river. Gimli, grabbing the spare packs of supplies he had deemed inescapably valuable, obligingly trotted forward to the boats, Legolas beside him. "If you are willing," continued the Ranger, "we travel east! To Frodo, and Sam, and to aide in their journey, to what we may." He made the same gesture to Aila, to command that she come toward the boats, but instead she took a stuttering step backwards, feeling shaky and overwhelmed. Another step took her farther away from the others as they busily swarmed to the bank of the river. "Quickly!" called the Ranger to the rest, "we have already lost precious time in our delay. Legolas, Gimli, Aila!; you should stay in the same boat, as before, and Boromir and I will take the other, with what supplies we can afford to bring with us. Quickly!" he said again. He seemed to willfully ignore that Aila was not responding to his commands, that she was moving away from them instead of toward them. She took another unsteady step, the worn soles of her boots sliding slightly on the damp ground, and each step sounded unnaturally loud as her footsteps squelched in the thick mud that preceded the rolling grass of Parth Galen.

"No," she finally managed to say, after what felt an eternity of surprised and frenzied thought. The singular syllable came choked and broken from her throat so that it sounded as though she had uttered a longer sentiment. Her voice was frail and low and quiet. None turned to regard her, as they were all focused to the task at hand, their hearts beating rapidly at the thought of heading into the east to follow after Frodo. "No!" she said again, shouting this time, and though she had tried to impart some strength of demand (or command) in her voice, the cry came out watery and insubstantial. "What are you doing?" she asked loudly, her voice on the edge of a desperate scream, and her call finally arrested the movement of her companions at the waterside. They turned to look at her, languidly, as though their motions were grounded in some thick and viscous quality in the air. Aila caught hold of Legolas' bright blue eyes, and she silently pleaded with him. "You cannot travel east," she begged, she insisted, and her words were hurried and breathless. She realized she could no longer remain inactive in the decisions of the remaining Company. Damn being precautious all to hell; and so she said, "You must not go east."

Each of her companions reacted differently, and none of these reactions were small, subtle, or surprising. The look of surety drained from Aragorn's face, to be quickly replaced with his previous expression of doubt and skepticism, and his dark gray eyes turned to Aila's own desperate expression. He could not ignore her when she spoke so plainly, and it was obvious that every fiber in his body was given to believing her. His hand fell away from the hilt of his sword and dangled indecisively at his side. Legolas' face looked pained and equally unsure, and he had a tormented look as though guilty at having been caught preparing to head east when it was so obvious that Aila would not go that way. The corner of his mouth twitched and his jaw tensed, and his blue eyes slid away from her face to look at Gimli, though the Dwarf only returned his questioning look with one of equal insecurity. This newest delay made an annoyed and angry look flash over the Dwarf's blunted features. Boromir's face was, unsettlingly, one of supreme annoyance, inflamed zealotry, and indignation. The Man from Gondor stepped forward toward Aila, and she thought at first that his movement was meant to reassure her – to place his large, strong body near to hers, as though their nearness would convince her of their true course, as though he meant to placate her fears over her own safety. For that one tiny second, Aila's thoughts were undeservedly kind to Boromir, and she truly believed he only meant to offer his own protection for her while they embarked on their dangerous quest into the east. This was not the case, as she realized only a moment later, and blood flooded her cheeks and her ears felt hot as she realized her dire mistake. His movement radiated barely contained violence and an overwhelming, overconfident authority. She saw instead that his slight step forward had effectively separated the two of them, spatially and conversationally, from the rest of their companions. Fear flooded her brain. Her eyes fled again to Legolas, whom she saw only over the Man's left shoulder; but the Elf was still looking to Gimli.

"We aren't meant to go east," she said, again, and loudly. She determinedly kept her eyes away from Boromir's face, though she was unsure what she was so afraid to see there. She tried to keep some semblance of confidence and power infused in her voice, and it seemed to work; she kept her gaze locked firmly on Aragorn's rapidly changing expression, and a small part of herself was allowed to be satisfied that she was having an effect. "We cannot help Frodo – his Fate is severed from ours, and we can no longer interfere in it. And would you leave Merry and Pippin to suffer at the hands of Saruman? He will surely kill them as soon as he realizes that neither is Frodo – that neither bears that which he, and his Master, is after." It was this last appeal which did the trick: she saw Aragorn's shoulders fully relax, and the Ranger, after only a moment, nodded slowly to Legolas and Gimli. The other two seemed to visibly calm as well. Frodo might be beyond their reach, but each knew they could not leave the two younger Hobbits to such a fate. Not idly would they allow Frodo to travel alone into the black country in the east. She said again, and resolutely, "We are not meant to go east."

Only Boromir remained agitated. It seemed to Aila that the Gondor Man's shoulders were moving, shrugging, vibrating, at such a rapid rate as to render the movement nearly invisible. His mouth wordlessly worked into a twisted grimace, his eyebrows lowered over his eyes and drew together angrily, and the set of his shoulders raised up, irately, toward the lobes of his ears. He drew himself to full height. He raised an accusatory hand toward her. "Traitor," he hissed, poison seething between his teeth. He had moved forward enough so that he was within two arm lengths of her, and Aila could see, the realization frightening, that the others were several yards behind him, still at the water's edge. "Agent of the Enemy!" he elaborated, taking another step toward her, bringing himself within grasping range of her. The Horn of Gondor fell, as though forgotten, from his right hand and into the thick mud. It sounded a dull, muffled _fwump_ as it hit the ground. Its pieces fell apart and lay, disconcerting and forlorn, on the ground, covered in a smattering of mud. "How can we trust you, who have already lead us astray? You say you know our Fate – that Frodo's Fate is severed from ours, but I see your mind! You have already betrayed us – or did you not allow our leader, Gandalf the Grey, to fall in the Mines of Moria? You betrayed us then, and you betray us now. How long have you served the Enemy?" he shouted, and spittle frothed at the corners of his mouth as he worked himself up into a righteous fury. "False woman!" he said in a disgusted tone, as though breathing a hideous and loathsome curse-word. "You would trick us, torment us, turn us aside from our correct path, from the way of bravery and righteousness. Handmaiden of the Enemy, you work to keep it from me!"

And it was this last sentence which froze the blood within her veins. Had she fooled herself into believing that if she saved Boromir's life, she would free him from his temptation? That it would erase the hold which the Ring of Power had gained in his mind? Her mistake was plainly obvious and dangerously before her now. She looked up into Boromir's eyes then, finally, and saw that his normally light brown eyes were flat and black, lightless and shallow, broad and as reflective as a mirror. Boromir was no longer in control of himself and, as though timed, the burn on her right forearm swelled with pain, as though she were being burned again. Pain seared through the skin and deep into the bones of her arm, and up into her shoulder, and her entire right arm felt limp and useless. As rapidly as the feeling had come, it disappeared. She flexed the fingers of her right hand, balling them into a fist, when she heard Aragorn calling for Boromir, entreating the Man from Gondor to calm himself, and Aila saw that the Ranger took a step forward. But he was still several yards away from Boromir, and even farther from herself. Her eyes moved back to Boromir. His hand moved to his belt.

It was lucky that the dumbfounded shock which flowed over her hesitated for only a moment when she saw Boromir's movement. Rather, her thoughts worked more swiftly than perhaps they ever had before, and she instinctually lifted a hand to her right shoulder, wrapping her fingers, sweaty and clutching and nervous, on the hilt of her sword, and she drew it out just as Boromir was drawing his own sword from its sheath. She lifted it to defend herself just as Boromir raised his, drawing it back to swing in a mighty, wide arc. Vaguely, she heard a shout from behind the Man from Gondor, as the Man brought his sword down toward her in a powerful swing – and then, only then, when it was undoubtedly and heart-sinkingly too late, Aila realized that she had drawn Glamdring, and not her own sword Núadin. Glamdring was dull and heavy in her hands, which were both white-knuckled around the sword's long hilt. Glamdring did not hum violently; Glamdring did not glow angrily. Glamdring would not protect her.

She only had the span of a half moment to contemplate how disappointing and dangerous it was that she had drawn the wizard's sword instead of her own spelled sword when Boromir's weapon crashed down into hers with a destructive ferocity, backed by the entire weight and strength and obsessive fury of the Man. And though she brought Glamdring square on against Boromir's blade to defend his wide swing, the attack was so vicious and overpowering that Aila's strength failed beneath it, and her feet slid several inches back in the mud. There was a bright and petrifying clang as their swords crashed together, and the meeting of the two blades caused strong vibrations to shoot down the length of Glamdring, into its hilt and into the tiny, delicate bones of Aila's hands. The vibrations in the hilt of the wizard's sword inflamed her tendons and weakened her muscles, so that she could no longer grip the hilt. Her knees buckled beneath her and as she fell to the ground, Glamdring likewise fell, useless, from her incapacitated hands and onto the ground before her knees, between herself and Boromir. She looked up at the Man, where she knelt before him like a penitent acolyte, and she saw that he already was drawing his sword back to strike once more. She could only look at him sadly.

Her senses began to fail her. From the corner of her eye, she saw that Aragorn was moving rapidly now towards them, his hand already drawing Andúril from his belt. But she knew that he would be too late. And after a moment, the Ranger disappeared from her sight as she lost her peripheral vision; her eyes tunneled in on Boromir. She also could not hear Aragorn's shout, as her ears also failed her. Everything was a haunting and hollow silence, and she stared, helplessly, at the almost pretty way the sunlight glinted off of Boromir's broad sword. She had saved Boromir's life, and now he would take hers. Her hands ached, an unbearable cacophony of tremors and involuntary jerks, but she lifted them in front of her face in a weak imitation of defending herself. The moment seemed to stretch into eternity. Her vision narrowed until she saw only Boromir's face, his expression twisted into a disgusting look of anger and obsession, his flat black eyes absorbing the light around his face so that he seemed swathed in shadow. Silence boomed in her deaf ears. And though her mouth must have been dry and cottony, she did not taste the metallic sting of blood in it. Her fingertips were stinging and numb.

She could think of nothing, could see nothing, could hear nothing; nothing except her impending death at Boromir's hand.

His sword began its downward arc.

The swing which would end her life.

She could not turn her eyes away. Her thoughts were frozen; her mind stilled.

And so she could not understand, could not comprehend, could not fathom, what it meant when Boromir's flat, black eyes suddenly opened wide in surprise and the anger seeped out of them. She could not understand why the mighty arc of his sword-swing faltered and was broken. She could not understand why that broad sword fell to the ground between them, clattering soundlessly on top of Glamdring. She could not understand why the Man fell to his own knees before her, a mirror of her stance. She could not understand why he began to lean forward toward her, his body moving as though uncontrollable, his eyes closed mournfully; and she could not understand why his body crashed into hers. Surprised, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders to stay his movement, to cradle his falling body against her chest. His head lolled against her neck, falling to her shoulder; and she understood.

As Boromir leaned forward into her, she saw them. She nearly choked. She could have died of shock just then.

Those arrows.

Long. Thin. Black-flighted.

Two of them were growing unnaturally out of the Man's back, and a third was at the ready, still tautly strung on Legolas' bow where the Elf stood not ten yards away. The Elf had a grim and determined expression on his beautiful features.

He suddenly did not look handsome to Aila, but terrifying.


	30. Running

Author's Note: This is a short chapter. It's meant to capture the erratic and unclear mental state that Aila is in, but I hope that it isn't too difficult to read. I also find myself compelled to express how utterly pleased I am by your reviews. Your accolades are overwhelming and inspiring; and I am blown away by the number of people who not only read this story, but thoroughly enjoy it. I hope this continues to be as entertaining and stimulating for you to read as it is for me to write.

Enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 30 Running

Aila became hyper-conscious of the breath in her throat. Ragged, torn, unsteady. The air around her face was bitter and cold. She inhaled; she exhaled. The taste of blood and dirt, and something fouler, was clouded over her tongue. Fear. Regret. Shame. Anger. Shock. All of these emotions flooded out of her in a rush, and she felt only empty. Blank.

A dull, numbed, throbbing pain grew near the stem of her tongue where her molars had bitten into it in terror.

She pushed Boromir aside, drawing her fingers rapidly back from his frame as though his skin burned her. The Man fell limply to the ground on his side. His hands fell from her body and flopped, uncontrollable, to the ground immediately before him. Aila couldn't help herself: she looked into his face. Life was rapidly leaving his blackened eyes. Blood bubbled, bright red and thick, on his pale, chalky lips. One of the arrows had pierced a lung.

Aragorn crashed down onto the ground beside her, his attention immediately and unerringly on the dying Man. At least, Aila could only assume that it was Aragorn's body which she perceived beside her; she had only the vaguest impression that it was the Ranger who tended to the quickly fading Man from Gondor. Her mind was as yet still frozen, still unthinking, not comprehending. Stuck in a time only moments passed. Empty. She felt a small bit of mud splash onto her side as Aragorn came down heavily into the thick puddle beside her; a little bit of it hit the side of her face, marking her cheek. The Ranger's broad, dirty hands flew up to cup Boromir's face, and then he gently adjusted the Man's body so that the arrow-wounds were relieved of any pressure. For a few moments, Aila only watched the Ranger's movements, allowing her eyes to roam aimlessly, mindlessly. She noticed the blackness of the caked dirt beneath Aragorn's broad, short fingernails contrasted sharply against the blinding, milky whiteness of Boromir's cheek. She noticed that Boromir's eyes were quickly changing back to their natural, soft brown; she noticed that his pupils were bleary and ill-defined, their edges seeming to seep in persistent shadows to the edges of his irises.

In a rush, her thoughts began to grind forward again, and it suddenly occurred to her that Boromir was no longer attempting to kill her – and so she rocked back off of her knees, turning to scramble away and get up onto her feet. She clawed at the mud with desperate, still-stinging hands to gain any purchase that would help her to her feet and away from the Man from Gondor. She did not make it very far. Once standing, she turned again to look at Boromir; the Man was now flanked by both Aragorn and Gimli, whose attentions were only on the Man. Both Ranger and Dwarf were on their knees, crouched around the Man's head. Aila could just see Boromir's eyes from between Aragorn's hands.

She could tell that he was already dead.

Her eyes lifted and she looked to Legolas.

He looked to her in the same instant; their eye-contact seemed to break Legolas from his own stilled reverie and he appeared to finally realize that Aila was no longer in any danger from Boromir. And so he hastily relaxed the arrow on the bowstring and dropped the weapon entirely to the ground at his feet. Without another moment's hesitation, he rushed forward to her – and his movement seemed impossibly swift. Aila guessed that time was resuming its normal pace in her comprehension. Within seconds, he was in front of her, his arms reaching to wrap tightly around her. He pulled her cheek against his neck, and he bent his own head to rest against her hair, turning her so that she could no longer see Boromir's corpse. She couldn't see his face, but his arms wound themselves tightly around her, his fingers spread wide to cover every inch of her that they could. Was he protecting her; or reassuring himself that she was still whole? His chest vibrated. She tried to focus on him, tried to hear the words that he was speaking; and with enough concentration, her hearing slowly returned to her. She could just barely hear the tenor of his voice; his tones were so muffled, as though underwater, that they were utterly meaningless to her. She listened numbly as his voice became clearer; she listened to the comforting overtones of that voice. And though the music of his tone was soft and low and soothing, her right ear, pressed against the crook of his neck, was privy to quite a different rhythm. The pounding of his heart: it was rapid and errant and it unreservedly betrayed the calm of his voice.

Legolas raised his hands to stroke through the thick strands of her hair – a gesture meant to offer more comfort. But her frenzied brain traveled down an alternate, harried path: Legolas' hands. Those hands! His hands, which only moments ago had been raised to slay Boromir, were now twined lovingly with the locks of her hair. Bile rose in her throat. Her eyes darted. She twisted her head. She could just barely see the dead Man's feet in the periphery of her vision. Legolas' fingers moved again through her hair. For the breadth of a moment, her entire body tensed; still and strained. Legolas' quick heartbeat pulled her intestines into a knot, encouraged her own heart to resume its frenetic pace, debilitated her mind. His fingers in her hair. Those hands!

Aila worked her arms up between them, placing her flat palms squarely against Legolas' chest, and she pushed away from him, out of his embrace. She trained her eyes away from his face, focusing instead on her own hands. Her insistent shove was stronger than she had expected. Legolas immediately released her from his embrace at this push, but he kept his hands held out, still reaching for her shoulders as though to directly pull her back into his arms again. His eyebrows were low over dark blue eyes that shone with hurt and confusion and a wild regret. Aila moved to block his hands, to force him to lower his arms again. She needn't have wasted the energy; her words swiftly did the work of her hands. She said: "You killed him." And Legolas dropped his hands straight away, and he took a harassed step away from her.

His expression – oh, she wanted to cry! Everything was so painful. All was regret. Pain. Confusion. Those hands!

Her voice had surprised her. It sounded far away, distant, hollow, empty. She tried again. "You killed him." Yes, her voice was louder now. Was that an improvement? Each word seemed to cause cutting pain to Legolas. She regretted them. She couldn't stop herself. She said again, "You killed him." At this last iteration, a determined look fled across Legolas' face, and he stepped forward again, raising his hands to her shoulders. He looked at her hard, his lips set on a thin line.

Was she crying? She couldn't tell. Her entire face was numb. But her vision was becoming blurry, so Aila guessed that she was in fact crying; she blinked a few times, in rapid succession, and her vision cleared as the tears fell onto her round cheeks.

She turned away from Legolas, forcing his hands to drop again from her shoulders by sheer reorientation of her body. She turned to face Aragorn and Gimli, and Boromir. Aragorn was rising to his feet. Boromir's eyelids were closed.

"Boromir is dead," she said, her voice thick and heavy, her tone unmanageable through her tears. Aragorn nodded. She said, her voice barely a whisper, "No." Aila looked at Boromir, lifeless on the ground. "No," she said again, "this isn't right." Her lungs felt starved, airless, constricted. This wasn't right, her mind reinforced. This wasn't right. This was their friend, however obsessed he had become by the ring. And she had saved him from death, she had changed his fate. A thought fled across her mind that she should not have interfered, that she should have allowed Boromir to die in battle. This thought disgusted her. But surely, this was worse? Surely, it was worse to die in betrayal of friends – worse to have been slain by a friend's own hand. Oh, Legolas! She ground her teeth together, more tears leapt onto her cheeks. Her features twisted into an ugly expression of sorrow and pain. "This isn't right!" she said loudly, accusatory, though her accusation was directed at no-one. But the repetition of her words did nothing to soothe the rapidity of her circular panic. "It wasn't meant to be like this – it wasn't meant to happen this way!"

It was Aragorn's face which changed then, his grief and sorrow were rapidly replaced by anger. Only anger. He strode over to Aila, his gait long and hurried. When he was in front of her, in the span of only four or five steps, he placed his hands on her shoulders; but his touch was not soft and comforting. He did not seek to quell her panic. His fingers dug into the flesh of her shoulder. Fear returned. She gasped in surprise and pain. "Did you know that this would happen?" the Ranger asked her, his eyes wide and bright. He shook her roughly. And when he asked again, shouting, "Did you know this would happen?" he also raised his right hand and slapped her. The blow shook her whole body, knocking her off balance. Her face swung dramatically to her right, away from the stinging slap which Aragorn's hand had bestowed. Aila's left cheek felt inflamed. No longer numb. His slap had erased every tear from her body.

In an instant, Legolas was between them; his hands, balled into fists, were pressed against the Man's chest. For a moment, it looked as though Aragorn were ready to engage the Elf in a fist-fight, but his face quickly resumed its broken, grief-stricken mien.

The Elf dropped his hands from Aragorn's chest, and he looked to Gimli, who was still crouched on the ground beside Boromir's corpse. "We must tend the fallen," the Elf said, nodding to Aragorn and frowning at the Dwarf. "We cannot leave him lying like carrion." His jaw was set. Aila could see that familiar, twitching muscle in the corner of his jaw-line.

"But we must be swift," warned the Dwarf, grunting as he rose to stand once more. "We must follow the Orcs into the west, if there is any hope that those two young Shire-folk are living prisoners."

Aragorn and Legolas shared a wordless glance, and after a moment the Ranger nodded to the Elf. Legolas walked over to join Gimli beside Boromir's body, and Aragorn stepped forward again to face Aila. He rested gentle hands on her upper arms, pressing her back and guiding her down. Her knees buckled beneath her again at his touch, just as he said, "Aila, you should sit and rest here." His strong hands arrested her swift fall and he guided her down slowly. She sat wordlessly on the grass. Aragorn walked over to join the others.

"We have not the time or the tools to bury our comrade fitly," Aila heard Legolas say, "or to raise a mound over him."

"Then let us lay him in a boat with his weapons," replied Aragorn, pressing his hands together prayerfully, twining his fingers with one another. "We will send him to the Falls of Rauros and give him to the Anduin. The River of Gondor will take care at least that no evil creature dishonors his bones."

Aila stopped listening. She turned her gaze onto her dirty, worn boots. Mud was caked on the calves of her leggings. She raised an unsteady hand to wipe away the dried dirt on her cheek. She scratched with her short fingernails until her cheek felt smooth again and free of the encrusted mud. Her thoughts were once more on an endless, hurried rotation, that familiar hamster-wheel of guilt and regret and uncertainty. She had saved Boromir; she had changed his Fate. But now he was dead. Unavoidably dead. Her interference hadn't been as effective as she had had hoped. Instead, she had made things worse. Much worse. Boromir had not died protecting the two younger Hobbits, returning some of his dignity to him. Instead, Boromir had both failed in protecting his small companions and had died in betrayal of his friends. He had not been killed by an enemy; he had been slain instead by a friend. And Legolas. Aila could hardly force herself to think of Legolas. What had her misdirected act done to him?

She tore her eyes away from her boots then, and looked up to Legolas. The Elf was climbing into one of the boats with Aragorn, a second boat readied beside them, lashed to the side of their own. Gimli was standing on the shore, prepared to shove them off on their way over the lake's choppy surface. Not ten feet from her, the Horn of Gondor still lay forgotten in the mud. Without hesitation, she scrambled forward, crawling part of the way before her struggling movements brought her onto her feet. She lifted the Horn from its muddy place and carried it swiftly to the lakefront with great haste. Wordlessly, she washed the mud from its halves in the shallows of the water, and she handed the Horn of Gondor to Aragorn. She did not look into the secondary boat. She could not look anymore on Boromir. And Aila frowned as Gimli gave the boats a push, sending them onto the water. For some minutes, she watched, together with the Dwarf, as Aragorn and Legolas paddled forward. Once they were caught in the current of the nearby Falls, they loosed the second boat, releasing Boromir from their side. They launched the boat forward. And they back-paddled, trying to remain stationary as they watched, close-lipped, as Boromir was borne away by the swift current. His boat disappeared over the lip of the Falls. The voice of Rauros remained constant. Boromir was gone.

Aragorn and Legolas paddled quickly to return to the shore where Aila and Gimli both waited. Once he had climbed from the boat, Aragorn placed a firm hand on Aila's arm, his fingers light and apologetic. He pulled the corner of his mouth into a half-hearted smile, which was directed at her. "My heart speaks clearly at last: the fate of the Bearer is in my hands no longer. Aila spoke true on that account. The Company has played its part. Yet we that remain cannot forsake our companions while we have strength left." His eyes glowed with a grim determination. "Come! We will go now, into the west, and after those two young Hobbits. Leave all that can be spared behind! We will press on by day and dark!"

. . .

It took little skill to pick up the trail of the Orcs, once they had returned to the fated clearing which should have been the site of Boromir's death – instead of the waterfront, Aila reminded herself. She kept her lips tightly closed. She breathed heavily through her nose. Every muscle in her body ached with heavy regret. Her mind felt weighted, ill.

Legolas looked around himself with evident disgust. "No other folk make such a trampling," the Elf said, shrugging his shoulders to adjust the quiver which sat on his back. He had divulged it of any remaining arrows which were similar to those arrows. Those thin, long, black-flighted instruments of Boromir's inevitable Fate. Aila cursed herself that she had taken up those arrows to give to Legolas. Had she been so stupid? Did it seem empty poetry now, that those arrows had, in the end, still served their macabre purpose? The Elf continued, "It seems their delight to slash and beat down growing things that are not even in their way."

"But they go with great speed for all that," responded Aragorn, his expression dark as he quickly walked into the direction which the trail led. The other three followed closely behind him, his walking pace was swift. "And they do not tire. And later we may have to search for our path in hard bare lands."

Well," replied Gimli, "after them!" The Dwarf's chest expanded proudly, and his face was set grimly. His thick eyebrows bristled over eyes that shone with righteous anger. "Dwarves too can go swiftly, and they do not tire sooner than Orcs. But it will be a long chase: they have a long start."

"Yes," said Aragorn, and his mouth turned up in a terrifying grin. "We shall all need the endurance of Dwarves. But come! With hope or without hope we will follow the trail of our enemies. And woe to them, if we prove the swifter! We will make such a chase as shall be accounted a marvel among the Three Kindreds: Elves, Dwarves, and Men. Forth, Hunters!" And he reached back to take up Aila's hand, gripping her fingers tightly between his, and he sprang away like a deer. Surprised, she leapt into a swift jog to follow after him, her hand still firmly in his. Gimli and Legolas followed swiftly after them.

They ran and ran, though their going was slowed by the roughness of the forest, as they had no cut path to follow. Within the span of a few hours, they were out of the sparse forest which had populated the rim of the lake, and Aila found herself in a broad, pale-green landscape, interrupted here and there by rocky outcrops. Dusk came. They passed away, Man and Elf and Dwarf, and Aila. Grey shadows in a stony land.


	31. The Chase

Author's Note: More heart-felt thanks for all of your wonderful and insightful reviews! I very much enjoy when you extrapolate meaning and poetry from the content of these chapters. While you do pick up on latent meaning that I do intend, your views can be quite fresh and interesting, and it makes me feel really great as a writer that I can get your thinking juices flowing. Here comes another difficult chapter which, again, is my excuse for its slow writing. Legolas/Aila are having a tough time (I really do feel bad for what I've done to them). A small reconciliation is coming in the next chapter, so you don't have to suffer for too long.

Please enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 31 The Chase

Aila was focused on the ground immediately before her feet; it was rough and uneven even here, beyond the sparse trees which had populated the banks of the lake of Tol Brandir, where the roots of those very dilapidated and color-starved trees had pressed up through the soil as though purposely intent on tripping her. Thick tufts of grass clumped in odd patterns, catching her heels and deflecting the intended paths of her toes. Her ankles were sore as she stumbled across their irregular path, and the arches of her feet ached as her leather boots provided little support for running. But she tightened her jaw and followed after Aragorn. The Ranger's pace was unrelenting. Legolas sprang lightly, grimly eager, just ahead of the Man, but only by a pace or two. His eyes were turned either ahead, toward the path of the enemy which they pursued, or beside him, to ensure that Aragorn was keeping pace. The Man's mouth was drawn tightly on a thin line; he breathed thickly and laboriously through his nose, puffing loudly, his shoulders rising and falling, quick and exaggerated. Even Gimli's feet pounded the ground, louder and swifter than Aila might have expected, in his heavy boots.

The day was ending now, fading away – day which had seen so much. Had it only been one day? Only that morning Frodo had been counted among Aila's companions; Merry and Pippin as well. Boromir had still drawn breath into his living lungs. Only hours ago her heart had flown with joy that the Man lived; she had felt powerful and purposeful, such as she had not felt on her journey with the Fellowship thus far. Only hours ago. Any joy or power had long since fled her body and her heart. They had been nine; now they were only four. Aila coughed roughly, clearing the thick spittle from her throat which threatened the ease of her breathing. She was already dehydrated. She continued to run forward.

Mist occupied the rim of the tree-line which they had left behind, brooding and pale on the margins of the Great River Anduin. But the sky was clear above them; the stars were out and the waxing Moon was galloping out of the West, hugging tightly to the far horizon. The shadows of the rocky outcrops, looming broad across the rolling landscape, were black and large.

The four companions scrambled now across a bony, barren land, dominated by two long tumbling ridges, rolling across its center, which constituted Emyn Muil. It was a broad landscape of stony hills, and their pace was slower because the trail of the Orcs was no longer easy to follow. As such, they paused more frequently now to seek out that path, for which Aila's knees and lungs and feet were grateful. And though the night darkened and deepened, Aila knew that they would not pause longer to rest or sleep. And a part of her was thankful even for this. It was so easy, so simple, to focus only on her feet, to grope blindly in the darkness along the rocky landscape, to follow after Aragorn and Gimli. It was easy to struggle in this physical capacity, counting her heavy breaths and adjusting her stride to account for pangs and twinges of soreness. She did not know how much distance she had passed in this manner: three steps inhaling, two steps exhaling – a persistent rhythm that held back the flood of any other thoughts. One, two, three; one, two. One, two, three; one, two. Her breaths, her heartbeats, the blinking of her eyes; each of these she had measured against her pounding feet. And thus, she constructed a wall.

Yes, this was easy. Far easier than to think of Boromir. That was not an easy thing – not easy to consider the events of the day. Had it only been one day? Legolas ran before her, but she tried not to look at him. Occasionally, her eyes caught the swift, steady turnover of his heels, yards ahead of her. She rather kept her eyes on the uneven ground before her feet. When she thought of Boromir, when she thought of Legolas … she stumbled. She tripped. Her feet were unsure. It was better to ignore her thoughts on either. One, two, three; one, two. The wall she built up against these thoughts was strong and effective.

The night wore on. The Moon sank below the far horizon and the twinkling stars watched with little interest as the four hunters continued on their chase. Aila's tongue was thick and dry and unwieldy; her breath was ragged and the air was sucked into her lungs by large, unsteady pulls. Her feet were aching, her toes felt numb, her back was slouched, her neck strained forward as her light-starved eyes sought the safest path for her searching feet. They ran on.

And there in the still, cool hours just before the dawn, they finally rested.

Aila gladly accepted the corner of _lembas_ that Aragorn handed to her; it was moist and sweet in her desiccated mouth. She took small, purposeful bites, chewing each piece thoroughly to wring what moisture she could from its softness to rehydrate herself. The first bite filled her stomach; the second renewed some strength to her aching limbs, dulling somewhat the pain and soreness that plagued her feet and ankles. A third bite relaxed and released the tight knot that was forming in her right calf. A fourth returned some color to her pallid cheeks. A fifth warmed her chilled fingertips. She experimentally pointed her toes, flexing her calves; the stretch felt tight and mildly painful, but after a five-count, the muscle relaxed and stretched more easily. As she was regarding the small bit of _lembas_left in her hand, Legolas walked silently over and sat down on the plush grass beside her.

And an overwhelming weariness washed over her.

She ran her tongue over her lower lip, slowly pulling it between her teeth and tearing away a little bit of the soft, thin skin. Her breath was stilled in her lungs. Slowly, she took her eyes from the elvish waybread in her fingers and turned to look at Legolas. It was unavoidable. She knew it. But what she did not know was how she could explain to him, which words could she choose – how could she put into coherent phrases the feelings and troubles and anxieties that even she had spent all day avoiding, all day shoving down into the darkest pit of her stomach, all day ignoring? Which words would be enough? Which words would break through the wall that she had built up in her mind?

Which words, even, would serve to break down the wall slowly rising between them?

But the mere act of looking at Legolas – innocent glance, empty of all intent! – broke through the careful wall that she had spent the day constructing, and her thoughts began to flow rapidly, willfully, wildly. It was painful to look at the Elf.

And perhaps some of that pain derived from the fact that she could understand the torturous expression on Legolas' face. He looked sad and weary, confused and anxious, and altogether uncertain. She opened her eyes wide in commiserative silence. Maybe she was only imagining those emotions into his expression; maybe it was that she felt those things herself, and only reflectively saw them in his features like an emotive mirror. Maybe.

They each stared at the other for the span of several minutes. Neither said anything, nor made any motion as though to speak. Would any words be enough to bridge the gap that was forming between them? Could any speech breach that wall? It was a brave new world, and Aila did not know its native tongue.

And though they sat near to one another, they did not touch. Aila longed for the comfort of his hand – remembering each time that his touch had sustained her. But comfort from Legolas was no longer her privilege. She had lost that as surely as Boromir had lost his life.

There was an expressive sense of defeat between them.

After a time, Aila could no longer stand to sit wordless, aimless. She could no longer bear to watch the trials of hurt and sorrow that washed over Legolas' fine features. Her eyes broke away from his face – and maybe this tearing away of her gaze was more painful than holding his eyes in hers. No matter. She looked away regardless. The remaining _lembas_she quickly put into her mouth, and she laid down upon the ground, chewing swiftly now. Aila turned onto her side, so that her back was to Legolas. Was there anything that she could say?

She fell asleep even before she had finished chewing.

. . .

It was Gimli that roughly shook her awake, only a few hours later. The day had not yet dawned, but the grayness that lined the horizon at their backs spoke to the near coming of the Sun. The entire landscape was ghostly, haunting, its gray color wan in the hour before the sunrise.

Aila stretched her body and groaned, her tight muscles and tendons responded with miniscule cracks and moans which only she could hear. She spat _lembas_crumbs from her mouth, remnants of her meal only hours ago. Her stomach still felt full, she did not need to eat again; her limbs were tight and cold, but not sore and painful. It was an uneasy refreshment.

For a time, the companions discussed their path. Aila did not participate; she kept her tongue quietly behind closed lips. Legolas, also, was silent.

"Which way would they turn, do you think?" asked the Dwarf of Aragorn, taking no care to stretch his broad, overworked muscles. His fingers were wrapped firmly around the shaft of his battle-axe, which hung heavily on his belt. It must have made for awkward running, Aila thought. "Northward, to take the straight road to Isengard, or Fangorn, if that is their aim? Or southward to strike the Entwash?"

"They will not make for the river, whatever mark they aim at," replied the Ranger, his gray eyes turned in the direction of their prey. For a moment, his eyes leveled at Aila, forcing her own eyes to turn afield as though to seek out the direction of the traveling Orcs. And while her eyes did rove for the span of several desperate seconds, she could offer him no assistance: she did not know which direction was north, or south. Since she couldn't bring herself to say that they should make directly for Isengard, she held her tongue. The Man continued, "And unless there is much amiss in Rohan and the power of Saruman is greatly increased; they will take the shortest way that they can find over the fields of the Rohirrim. Let us search northwards!"

And again, he sprang away, lightly as though fresh from a full night's rest in a soft bed. Elf and Dwarf followed swiftly at his heel. Aila closed her eyes, inhaling deeply; she filled her lungs with the clean, sweet, fresh air of the pre-dawn. And then, with a quick hop, she was churning her legs again, running across hill and dale.

An hour passed. Maybe two. Perhaps, even, it was three.

The Sun dawned bright and cheery out of the east. It cast a blinding green light about them, lighting the grey slopes, which had been shadows and only the mere implications of a landscape in the creeping paleness of the dawn, and infusing them with color. Now the scene around them was blinding. Bright blue sky, vibrant green grassy knolls, solid gray rocks. Occasionally, there was a expansive, fluffy white cloud. In Boston, Aila might have proclaimed loudly that today was a nice day for running. And but for the chaos in her heart, it was.

Legolas' fleet feet carried him always some ten yards ahead of Aragorn as they pursued their path, his feet seeming eager to bring him farther into this incandescent scene. The shining golden light against his yellow hair made him into a brilliant beacon which Aila's tired feet followed without thought. "Look!" called the Elf back to the others, though he barely turned his head to send the words in their direction. His dark eyes were cast steadily some twenty yards from their path. "We have already overtaken some of those that we are hunting." He pointed to the bodies; and though Aila needn't draw any closer to know of the scene which Legolas gestured to now, she went nearer regardless. Aragorn was beside her. The four of them stared wordlessly for some time at the piled orc-bodies: they were cut with cruel slashes, bloody and torn. Their weapons were cast to the side, some four or five feet out of the reach of the corpses' hands. Useless.

Gimli stuck out the toe of his boot to nudge distastefully at one of the bodies. Disturbed flies zoomed into the air in a grisly halo. "Here is another riddle," said the Dwarf heavily. His wide hands were placed on his hips, and he seemed to stoop a little bit as he caught his breath. His face was red and shining with sweat.

"And yet," began Legolas quietly, not taking his eyes from the bodies, "it seems not unhopeful." Aila turned her head sharply then to look at the Elf. Had she not heard him clearly, she might have disbelieved that he had used the phrase _not unhopeful_. His expression, his tone – indeed, his very manner of standing – spoke of nothing but complete hopelessness. Legolas' normally rich, melodic voice was hollow and brass. It caused Aila deep pain. "Enemies of the Orcs," continued the husk of Legolas' voice, "are likely to be our friends. Do any folk dwell in these hills?"

"No," replied Aragorn, after a moment's contemplation. His eyes scanned the bodies as his mind worked to solve the riddle before them. "And the Rohirrim seldom come here, and it is far from Minas Tirith. It might be that some company of Men were hunting here for reasons that we do not know. Yet I think, rather, that the enemy brought his own enemy with him. These are Northern Orcs from far away; among the slain there are none of the great Orcs with the strange badges. There was a quarrel, I would guess: it is no uncommon thing with these foul folk. Maybe there was some dispute about the road."

"Or about the captives," replied Gimli sourly, and all four of them were silent a moment as the contemplated the Dwarf's words. "Let us hope that they, too, did not meet their end here," he said.

As they continued on, they mounted a tall hill, higher than its brothers around it, and they paused at its zenith to stare keenly into the north. And were Aila less weary, less broken by toil, she might have counted the experience of looking out onto this landscape as one of the more wondrous experiences of her life. Mossy green grass spread as far as the eye could see, covering hills that rolled like the stilled waves of a calm sea, studded here and there with wide and tall rocks that burst from the surface of the grassy sea like playful whales. The bright blue sky hung a pretty backdrop. The yellow Sun was pressing hot fingers into their skin, warming bones that had not known warmth or comfort since Lórien. They seemed to have left the winter far behind: here the air was softer and warmer, scented with that effervescent, energetic, virile smell of fresh, renewed life – as if spring were stirring and the sap was once more flowing in herb and leaf.

Aila couldn't help but notice that Legolas' eyes intermittently closed, and his chest expanded as he drew powerful breaths of that sweet, spring air. And watching him take these deep breaths, akin to one that drinks a great draught after a long thirst in barren places, felt intrusive to Aila – but the scene was compelling and inviting, and the beauty of the sunlight on his hair and face, and the insinuation of life in her nostrils, drew Aila to openly stare.

Legolas' eyes fluttered open and his deep blue eyes, darker than the bright sky which was their backdrop, stared back into hers for but a moment. He closed his eyes lightly once more and said, "Ah, the green smell! It is more restful than even a full night's rest." And though his expression was mournful, and his voice lessened to a whisper, Aila heard a minute return of some of the richness that his voice had previously held. Restful, indeed. Restorative. When his eyes opened a second time to look at her, Aila saw that his hand automatically raised toward her, reaching to touch her upper arm. It was a familiar gesture. Her tired heart leapt up.

But Aragorn's voice rose up, and it's sudden sound stayed the motion of Legolas' hand, and slowly that hand – that hand! – fell back again to the Elf's side. "Look!" Aragorn was saying, though Aila hadn't the heart, or the desire, to immediately turn her attention to him. The Man obligingly lifted a finger to point in the direction which his bright eyes had been surveying for some minutes. "I can see something near at hand and urgent; there is something moving over the plain!" Their quarry. Within vision. Pain fled from Aila's body, uncertainty drained from her heart and lungs – but only momentarily – at this stirring statement.

And then Legolas' eyes were turned northward, away from Aila. "Yes," replied the Elf slowly, after spending several moments in contemplation of the direction which Aragorn had indicated. "Many things. It is a great company on foot; but I cannot say more, nor see what kind of folk they may be. They are many leagues away: twelve, I would guess; but by the flatness of the plain it is hard to measure."

"Nevertheless!" said Gimli happily, gravel in his deep voice. "I think we no longer need any trail to tell us which way to go."

"Indeed," said Aragorn. "And light feet may run swiftly here. More swiftly, maybe, than iron-shod Orcs. Now we have a chance to lessen their lead!"

And then – yes: they ran.

. . .

They followed their enemies by the clear light of day. The orc-trail led them north, always north: atop plush grass, weaving between giant boulders and great stony outcrops that grew suddenly from the grass, and dangerously close to the edges of deep clefts carved into the land by a tiny stream far below.

Aila's shins ached, and her lungs felt raw, and her toes were mostly numb. The hot sun shone relentlessly, urging sweat from her brow, which fell in hideous droplets from her eyebrows into her eyes and along the ridge of her nose. The brightness of the sun had partially blinded her, so that the vibrancy of the scenery appeared grayer, more washed out. The virility of the living landscape had effectively leeched its own vibrancy from her sight. The green of her tunic looked gray beneath her ashen fingers, her soft brown boots were entirely color-less. She squinted, wiped perspiration from her forehead, dashed salt out of her eyes, and she tried to keep pace, at least, with Gimli. The Dwarf seemed to be faring little better than she.

Twenty-four hours prior, she had also been running. Her legs, dripping wet, had pounded beneath her recklessly, desperate to bring her in time to save Boromir's life. She pushed that thought away as her legs reprised this motion. Left foot, right foot; cutting jab of pain in her left shin, followed immediately by the tight ache of a growing knot in her right calf. Again, and again. A never-ending loop.

The morning was long passed. The afternoon was marching on to full evening. Aila struggled on after Aragorn. With heated, angry, silent words, she cursed each of Legolas' light steps.

And then, like manna from heaven ... Aragorn finally called them to a halt. The Ranger came to a sudden stop, his right hand flying up, palm flat, to urge the others to pause as well. Aila gratefully arrested the churning of her legs, and ground to an immediate halt. Her aching body protested, previously working muscles seized, her lungs tightened for the fraction of a moment. "Stay!" commanded Aragorn, and he began to stalk away from the path they were on. "Do not follow me!"

Aragorn darted off, his head swiveling as his eyes searched the ground before his feet for more mysterious clues of whatever it was that he searched for. About fifty yards from where the other three stood waiting, he found it; he straightened his spine again and sped back to their company. And he wordlessly held up his prize. Emerald green flashed in the sunlight, reawakening Aila's eyesight.

"The brooch of an elven-cloak!" cried Gimli as the three of them stared in wonder at the trinket in Aragorn's hand.

"Yes," replied Aragorn, and though his face was sweaty and dirty and haggard, there was an eager and triumphant light behind his eyes. "Not idly do the leaves of Lórien fall," he said poetically. "This did not drop by chance: it was cast away as a token to any that might follow. I think Pippin ran away from the trail for that purpose; these maybe are his footprints, his feet were smaller than the other's."

"Then he at least was alive. And he had use of his wits, and of his legs, too. That is heartening," Gimli said, drawing in heavy breaths to calm his rapidly beating heart. He shifted his weight on his feet, his muscles obviously aching and uncomfortable. "We do not pursue in vain," he confirmed, though he seemed to say it mostly to himself.

"Let us hope that he did not pay too dearly for his boldness," said Legolas, in a tone that was much more bleak. His tone seemed to surprise even him, and Legolas shrugged to adjust the way his quiver sat on his back, and he cried, "Come! Let us go on! The thought of those merry young folk driven like cattle burns my heart."

More running. They ran through the evening and into the darkening night. Only Legolas continued with the fleet, light step that he had began their chase with; the toil was showing on each of his three companions, though each to a different degree. Second to the Elf, it was obvious that Aragorn fared the best. His shoulders were slightly hunched and his pace was slower than it had been the hour previous (and an hour previous, his pace had been slower than the hour before that), but by-and-large the Ranger was faring well on their cross-country trek. Gimli, running doggedly beside Aila – together, they were some twenty yards behind Aragorn, and around thirty to fifty behind Legolas – and his breath was ragged, rapid, and shallow. He inhaled, roughly, with each step of his left foot, and exhaled, noisily, with each impact of his right foot. His steps were short and his movement listless and muddy. But for how tired the Dwarf was, Aila was doing much worse. Her legs, after all, were much longer than Gimli's, and yet she was proud for keeping pace at least with him.

Aila had not ever been, or considered herself, a runner. She had enjoyed running as a workout, and regularly ran on the treadmill after work, or along the Charles River, or beside the ocean at the harbor. She could easily run a few miles within a thirty-minute burst. It didn't exhaust her to run a swift pace for that short time. Once, she had even thought of building up to a half-marathon. And she had always considered herself rather fit and healthy, despite a more rounded figure than one that might have indicated true athleticism. Sure, her wide hips and fleshy thighs didn't indicate a marathon-runner, but her calves, she thought, were appropriately round and muscular.

Nothing, however, might have prepared her for this journey. She might have trained herself to run a marathon every weekend, but even that could not have readied her body for this never-ending marathon through the countryside.

And so, with every exhaled breath, she silently exclaimed in violent and intemperate words. She denounced her soft, academic life, wishing instead that she had trained as an Olympic athlete. Maybe then she could have held pace with the Ranger. Legolas, who ran so easily, should have inspired as much hatred as her own lack of preparation. But she could not think evilly of him. She tried not to think of him at all.

Her body could not take another mile.

And so it was none-too-soon, then, when Aragorn called them finally to pause. Night was thick around them. The pale Moon was hanging low in the sky, clinging tightly to the far horizon, not daring to climb higher into the intermittently clouded sky. Stars blinked in and out of existence as these clouds moved silently through the black sky. "We have come at last to a hard choice," said the Ranger as he turned to the others. He and Legolas had paused for a few minutes while she and Gimli had slowly caught up to their position. Beside her, the Dwarf breathed heavily. She tried to match her breathing to his so that his noisy gasps covered her own, embarrassingly heavy and loud, panting. "Shall we rest by night," Aragorn asked of his three companions, "or shall we go on while our will and strength hold?" It was plain to Aila that her will and strength was already spent, but she said nothing. Words might not have formed properly on her dried and unwieldy tongue. She looked at the Ranger with unabashed desperation.

It was Legolas who spoke first. He stood tall in the night, his breathing easy, unhurried, and silent. "Unless our enemies rest also, they will leave us far behind, if we stay to sleep."

"Surely even Orcs must pause on the march?" asked Gimli, placing his hands on his hips and bending slightly forward in an ill-guided attempt to slow his breathing. His voice was thick and his words rounded and muddled by his dry mouth.

"Seldom will orcs journey in the open under the sun, and yet these have done so," replied Legolas quickly. "Certainly they will not rest by night."

"But if we walk by night, we cannot follow their trail," argued Gimli. It was obvious to Aila that he rallied to rest. Silently, she threw her will behind him. She glanced to the Moon, silently praying that the Dwarf prevail.

"The trail is straight," said Legolas, waving a hand to dismiss the Dwarf's argument. He turned to look at Aragorn in the watery light. "It turns neither right nor left, as far as my eyes have seen."

"Maybe I could lead you at a guess in the darkness and hold the line," Aragorn replied, and Aila was glad to hear that his voice was appropriately skeptical. "But if we strayed, or they turned aside, then when the light came there might be a long delay before the trail was found again."

"And there is this also: only by day can we see if any tracks lead away," contributed Gimli, his voice brighter and louder at having heard the desire to rest in Aragorn's voice. He continued boldly, "If a prisoner should be carried off, easterward, say, to the Great River, towards Mordor, we might pass the signs and never know it."

Aragorn said slowly, thoughtfully, "That is true." Legolas made an agitated movement, but stayed quiet.

"And what of escape?" Gimli's deep voice settled on the final argument which would sway their leader. "In the dark, we should have passed the signs that led you to the brooch."

Legolas' voice leapt up then in argument. "The Orcs will be doubly on their guard since then, and the prisoners even wearier. There will be no escape again, if we do not contrive it. How that is to be done cannot be guessed, but first we must overtake them."

"Ah, yes," replied Gimli, almost wisely, "and yet even I, Dwarf of many journey – and not the least hardy of my folk – cannot run all the way to Isengard without any pause. My heart burns me, too, and I would have started sooner; but now I must rest a little to run the better. And if we rest, then the blind night is the time to do so." Legolas obviously disagreed, but again, he said nothing for a time.

Aragorn nodded to the still-panting Dwarf. "I said that it was a hard choice. How shall we end this debate?"

"You are our guide, and you are skilled in the chase. You shall choose," said Gimli obligingly.

Legolas nodded, at least in this matter agreeing with the Dwarf. "My heart bids me go on, but we must hold together. I will follow your counsel."

And then Aragorn's eyes turned on Aila, who had raised no opinion during this argument, and what he saw settled his decision. It was obvious, even in the darkness, that her face was bright red and slick with sweat, even in the cool air of the night-shade. Her shoulders were rounded and hunched, her hands placed weakly on her waist, resting the weight of her arms against the curve of her hips, and her right leg she had bent, placing its weight delicately on her pointed toe so to rest her tightened calf, and her body weight she had entirely on her aching left leg. Her clothes were disheveled, and her stance was one of exhaustion and road-weariness.

Aragorn sighed. "You give the choice to an ill chooser: since we passed through the Argonath my choices have gone amiss. But I choose now – we will not walk in the dark. The peril of missing the trail or signs of other comings and goings seems to me the greater. If the Moon gave enough light, we would use it – but alas! He sets early and is yet young and pale." He turned again to look at Aila, and she could see, even by that pale light from the Moon, that his expression was apologetic and concerned. "And though it is beyond my power to aid the going of one of the Bearers set to our protection, I find that it is still in my duty that I am bound to Aila. She is still in my charge – indeed, she is still our sworn obligation to defend and watch after, Legolas and Gimli. And I cannot force her to go on when it is so plain that she must rest. Well, I have chosen. So let us use the time as best we may!"

Aila threw herself gratefully to the ground as Aragorn and Gimli each did the same. And though every fiber in her being was crying out that she immediately lay down to sleep, she began the long process of stretching her muscles. She stretched her legs out in front of her and bent her back forward, wrapping her fingertips around the toes of her boots. At first, the stretching was painful and her muscles were resistant, but after a few breathless counts, her body began to relax and her muscles released, stretching more painlessly and easily. She did every stretch that she could think of, turning one leg over the other and twisting around to stretch her aching back, pressing her ankle into the opposite knee and lifting both legs toward her chest, spreading her legs wide and reaching forward to the empty space between them. Each stretch felt better than the last.

During this process, Aragorn had come to sit beside her. He offered her first a bit of _lembas_ which she accepted and chewed quickly, finishing her small meal as she finished her stretching. Second, Aragorn handed her a small sprig of a dried plant, which Aila recognized as _athelas_. "Chew this," he said to her, "but do not swallow it. It should relieve you somewhat." And so she plucked the small sprig from his fingers and popped it into her mouth, chewing cautiously. A flavor like the tart smell of lavender grew in her mouth, and she swallowed this juice which the _athelas_ released.

And as she chewed, Aragorn began to speak from where he sat beside her. "Forgive me," he began quietly. Behind them, Gimli was smacking his lips loudly as he finished his portion of _lembas_. He seemed to enjoy the waybread immensely. Aragorn continued, "It was wrong of me to strike you. I allowed my grief to turn to anger, and I should not have raised a hand to you."

Aila had quite forgotten that Aragorn had slapped her, hardly thirty hours prior. She had forgotten it because she had considered it deserved; she said as much to Aragorn.

He resisted, disagreed. Nothing could excuse his behavior.

She sighed, studying her fingernails in depth for a few silent moments. Rallying her strength, she leveled her eyes on Aragorn. "I knew that it was going to happen," she said to the Ranger, letting her words sink in slowly. "I knew that Boromir was going to die." This admittance had the expected affect on the Man, and he only stared at her mutely, his lips parted as though he were ready to speak at any moment. He held his silence as she continued the revelation. "He was meant to die in the clearing, fighting Orcs," she said, her eyes firmly level with Aragorn's gaze, her voice flat, dispassionate. She couldn't allow any feeling to seep into her words. She couldn't lose control. She didn't deserve it. She also knew that Gimli and Legolas could easily hear her; Gimli was uncharacteristically quiet behind them, and Legolas was not far off from where they sat. And so she spoke for the privileged ears of all. "But I couldn't just let him die, so I killed the Orc that would have killed him. And I gave his arrows to Legolas." Aila turned away from Aragorn then, turning her face forward and hanging her head. "I meant to save him," she lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She could not cry. Screwing her eyes tightly closed, she forced the words again. "I meant to save him, but I only made everything so much worse. Boromir ... he was meant to die protecting Merry and Pippin, killed by the Enemy. Instead, he lived to fail in that task, and lived to nearly betray his companions, to seduce you into going east. And still, he died. I _couldn't_ stop it, in the end. Killed instead by a friend. And Legolas ..." and here, she couldn't help herself, tears crested onto her cheeks. She tried to hide the sound of them from her voice. "I can't even begin to imagine what I've done to Legolas, forcing him to kill his friend."

Aragorn shifted forward, and he pulled her hand away from her face, wrapping her fingers in his hand, and his motion commanded her attention again. She turned to look at him once more. "You did not force any of this to occur, as I am sure Legolas would agree. It might have been my hand that slew Boromir, if I were only a few steps nearer – and I would not blame you, if it had been by my hand that Boromir met his death."

"But it was not you," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It is Legolas that bears the burden of my interference in Boromir's fate."

Aragorn considered her words carefully for several moments. "And is this," he asked, "the reason for your continued distance since then? Is this why I have seen you push Legolas away, why you have avoided his companionship?"

"Yes," she admitted, ashamed. "I cannot stand to consider what he might think of me now."

"Aila," said Aragorn, his grip on her hand becoming firmer. "It is not my claim to understand all that you might understand or know. Surely, your knowledge is both a privilege and an incomprehensible burden. But were it my hand that killed our friend, noble Boromir, I would have no blame for you, whose aim was only to spare his life." He opened his eyes wide, she couldn't read his expression. "And I would be more upset now to find you distant. It would be the greater injury to lose your friendship in the ordeal."

And so Aila turned her face away from Aragorn then, and looked over her shoulder to where Legolas stood, lean and tall against the backdrop of the starry sky. He was standing with his back to her, facing northward, but his face was turned aside, so that she could see the curves of his profile. His hair was tucked behind his pointed ear, so that he could listen the better. She whispered to him, "I'm sorry."

And then Legolas turned his face away, looking back to the north.


	32. The Familiar

Author's Note: Another long break between updates for which I keenly apologize. I hope you can be satisfied that this, at least, is a relatively long chapter and has what I think are some pretty cool bits to it.

As always: enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 32 The Familiar

That morning was cold. A dim light was leaking into the sky beyond the distant eastern horizon, and its weak, watery, insubstantial light did little to inject any sense of warmth into the atmosphere. In fact, it did more to make the scene seem that much colder, that much more bereft of any comfort in the pallid light of the new day. There was nearly a sense of loss and of hopelessness on the very air. Into this impending morning, Aila woke stiff and uncomfortable on the half-frozen ground, her tunic and leggings damp with dew. Her body was sore, every part of her was inflamed with pain even before she had opened her eyes. Her muscles screamed with even her slightest movement, hardened by the chill in the air and her few hours of inactivity.

She began, slowly, to stretch her body once more, to realign muscles which had pulled themselves out of place in the night – or so it felt. For a moment, she was forced to pause, frozen by pain as a large knot formed in her calf had begun to spasm, forcing the host of muscles in her leg to tense, arching her toes outward. She gritted her teeth and stilled any movement of her lungs or body until the pain subsided, and eventually disappeared. With bated breath, she waited a few moments more. It was over; and she laid back down onto the damp earth, pressing the back of her head into the ground as though to steady herself. She took a few shaky breaths.

Aila felt pale. There really were no other words to describe it. The corners of her eyes were tight and drawn, her skin was frozen and inflexible, her entire body felt foreign to her. Listless, wispy, as insubstantial as the dawn. She was grounded only in pain.

The pre-dawn seemed to stretch on into eternity as Aila attempted to rouse herself, tried to prepare her body for another day of their cross-country race. Of course, it was pointless. She tried anyway.

From the corner of her eye, as she finally talked herself up to standing, Aila caught sight of Legolas: he was standing several yards away from the other three, still in the same place where she had see him before falling asleep. Hadn't he moved at all? He was leaning forward, toward the north, as one would hold himself who was withstanding the strong gusts of a powerful wind: braced and ready for the violent burst which might knock him backward. A gentle wind stirred his blond hair, but otherwise the Elf was motionless.

She shared a wordless glance with Aragorn and Gimli, both of whom were already standing, at least outwardly prepared for the day. The three of them closed the gap between themselves and Legolas. There were a few heartbeats of silence while they all followed the Elf's gaze into the north. There was nothing to be seen; at least as far as Aila could tell.

"They are far, far away," said Legolas, finally, despondently. He did not move his eyes from their present gaze. "I know in my heart that they have not rested this night. Only an eagle could overtake them now." His voice had sunken back into a haunting hollowness, a despairing emptiness; it was plain that already he was mourning the Hobbits.

And though the sorrow in Legolas' voice broke Aila's will anew, it seemed to refresh an angry resistance in Aragorn, so the Man said: "Nonetheless, we will follow as we may." There was a ruthless determination in his voice, a grimly purposeful spark of willfulness. "Come! We must go. The scent is growing cold."

"But it is still dark," complained Gimli, still in the obvious measures of waking up. "Even Legolas on a hill-top could not see them till the Sun is up."

It was only then that Legolas took his eyes away from the distant north, wherever it was that he looked, and he turned his blue eyes on the Dwarf. "I fear they have passed beyond my sight from hill or plain, under moon or sun." Again, mournfully. That Legolas seemed so hopeless, so lost – to have so wholly given up on their hunt – seemed to Aila a matter of exquisite pain. She watched him sympathetically; she wanted to reach out to take his hand in hers, she wanted to tell him that they would find the Hobbits, she wanted to tell him that their reunion with Gandalf was near at hand, she wanted to comfort him, she wanted to apologize. His eyes met hers. She couldn't; she looked away.

Aragorn's voice distracted her again from these thoughts. "Where sight fails the earth may bring us rumor. The land must groan under their hated feet!" And without any other word, the Ranger threw himself down to the ground and pressed an ear to the earth. Gimli watched with a look that bordered on barely-contained laughter, and Legolas watched silently, only gloomy and humorless. It was a long, long time before Aragorn spoke again. "The earth is confused," he said, from his awkward position, his cheek still pressed into the earth. "Nothing walks upon it for many miles about us. Faint and far are the feet of our enemies. But loud are the hoofs of horses, passing in the West. But now they are drawing ever further from us, riding northward. I wonder what is happening in this land!"

"Well, let us go on," Gimli replied to this speech, shrugging his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion and shifting his body weight quickly between his feet. "My legs must forget the miles. They would be more willing, if my heart were less heavy."

Legolas looked at him then, and the fire alight in his dark blue eyes was surprising and not a little intimidating. "Let us go!" the Elf urged. He quickly followed his own command, turning to the north and moving swift. Aragorn, Gimli, and Aila all followed hastily after him.

And so the third day of pursuit began.

Aila struggled that day, as much as could be expected and probably a little more. Given the circumstances, she was surprised even to have made it through another day of the hunt. Their pace was unrelenting, unforgiving. The rising sun warmed the air, and the cold morning gave way to a tepid afternoon. Aila was empty of thoughts by that afternoon, under the bright sun and blue sky of Rohan. She had no energy, no desire, for giving attention to anything other than the repeated turnover of her feet, and of not falling too far behind. Dogged. Left, right, left; follow Aragorn. She thought of nothing else. The afternoon passed. The sun danced lower as the evening wore on.

At dusk they halted again.

Throwing herself to the ground, Aila made no attempts to hide her exhaustion or her heavy breaths. The other three remained standing for some minutes more; though Gimli was hunched over, his hands on his waist. Aragorn and Legolas both stared, a mirror the other, into the north. After several minutes of silence, the others came to sit next to Aila where she sprawled on the soft grass.

"Now do I most grudge a time of rest or any halt in our choice," said Aragorn softly as they settled. "The Orcs have run before us, as if the very whips of Sauron were behind them. I fear they have already reached the forest and the dark hills, and even now are passing into the shadows of the trees."

Gimli grunted, removing his axe from his belt and tossing it to the ground beside him. "This is a bitter end to our hope and to all our toil!"

"To hope, maybe, but not to toil," Aragorn replied, a sentence which seemed to give Gimli very little satisfaction. The Dwarf grunted again, shaking his head so that his beard rustled against his chest. Aragorn sighed; Aila was surprised to see that his expression was one of supreme exhaustion. The Ranger looked decades older than he had seemed only moments before. "We shall not turn back here. Yet I am weary. There is something strange at work in this land," the Ranger said quietly, as though thinking aloud. "I distrust the silence. I distrust even the pale Moon. The stars are faint; and I am weary as I have seldom been before, weary as no Ranger should be with a clear trail to follow. There is some will that lends speed to our foes and sets an unseen barrier before us: a weariness that is in the heart and mind more than in the limb."

"Truly!" was Legolas' reply. "That I have known since first we came down from the Emyn Muil. For the will is not behind us, but before us." And with that, he pointed northward. They all immediately understood the content of his insinuation.

"Saruman!" muttered Aragorn, and the exhaustion seeped from his face as it was replaced with frustration and anger. And, again, that bleak determination. "But he shall not turn us back!"

But before the Ranger could clamor back onto his feet, Aila said quietly, "Aragorn." Her voice surprised her, sounded foreign. It felt as though she hadn't spoken in weeks – perhaps it had been weeks. She had completely lost track of time, and their trek across the pathless space of Rohan seemed endless. Six eyes turned to her then: light gray, and deep blue, and rich brown. "We cannot continue on this night: I, at least, need to rest. And – and perhaps this is the most important point – if Saruman is working within our minds to subdue our strength, then that is something which I might be able to do something about." Aragorn's eyes opened a bit wider; had he not yet been a witness to her power as Intyalle? She whispered softly, "But I cannot do that and run also through this darkness."

"Yes," responded Aragorn after only a moment, and it was plain that he was relaxed again where he sat. He stretched his long legs in front of him. "We must rest again this night," he said certainly, "it is much too dark. See! even the Moon is falling into gathering cloud." And then he regarded Aila quietly for a few moments, before continuing, quietly: "I have heard several times, and from several mouths, that you are a gift – and now, indeed, I see the certainty of this. You are most lately a gift to myself, if you can beat off Saruman's influence. Wise were Gandalf and Elrond to send you on this quest; and the Lady Galadriel as well," he cried, and then he smiled at her, and Aila heard the gladness, and the tinge of humor, in his voice: "You are a powerful ally. I would consider, in fact, that we be inclined to your protection, rather than you to ours." The Ranger nodded, curt and decisive, as though reaffirming something to himself, and he said to the others, "Our road lies north between dawn and fen when the day returns – and we shall hope that our full strength is returned by morning's first light."

It would not do to waste any time with insecurities, and so Aila ate a little bit of _lembas_ and then turned her attention to the three sitting around her. The land was dark, the Moon hidden beneath a roving cloud and the stars were oddly dimmed by some haze. She could hardly see the shapes of the Man, Elf, and Dwarf around her. Aragorn was to her left. The Ranger first, then. She reached out a hand to him, resting her fingers lightly on the back of his hand, and she closed her eyes, blocking out the anemic light of the stars.

The blackness was total, cool and enveloping but not forbidding. She was pressed up against a wall, unable to break through; she pushed harder, expectant, and after a few heartbeats the wall began to melt away, and Aragorn allowed her access into his mind.

And then she was in Rivendell.

It was unmistakable. The smooth stone floors, the delicate archways, the distant singing of elven voices, the bright light wafting in which was tinged slightly green by the abundance of growing things: it was certain and unquestionable. Aila stood now, again, in Lord Elrond's House. And it was amazing. Was this Aragorn's mind? She felt sure that it was, and she reached a penitent hand to touch a familiar fresco on the wall nearest to her. Its surface resisted her touch, plainly substantial. Wonderful. Exquisite. She took a few slow steps forward through the magnificent hallway – so akin to any of the halls she might have walked down months ago in the elven haven of Imladris.

And before she could stop herself, she was lost, immersed in a series of intriguing questions about the meaning of the form which Aragorn's mind had taken. She was, after all, an academic – an intellectual – and curiosities were undeniably titillating to her. And so she couldn't help herself but wonder: what did it mean that Aragorn's mind was (as far as she could tell) a perfect reproduction of this elven city, this elven house? Did it imply that the form which their minds took was not formed at birth, but was rather the result of various influences throughout one's life? Like some profound instantiation of nurture over nature? Did one have some measure of choice, or did the mind autonomously form according to a scene which imparted a hint at deeper endeavors, deeper meanings? So many questions. After all, Aragorn was not elf-kind, though he had been raised in Rivendell. Perhaps, maybe, the halls of one's mind took the form of your home, then, whichever space that may be? Frodo mind had looked much like what Aila imagined Bag End to be. And Legolas ... the halls of his mind were rather the intricate paths of a stunning forest, which certainly could be Mirkwood. Did this prove it, then? Surely not, she argued with herself. Her own mind – sea and sky – was definitely no place that she had ever been before, and even she couldn't comprehend the meaning of the form which her own mind had taken. And a nagging corner of her mind was sure that Legolas' mind was not actually Mirkwood, but rather the idealization of an elven forest. And Boromir ... well. She had actually never seen into Boromir's mind.

It was a thought for another day, she chastened herself. Better to return to her task.

She took a few more steps through the hallways of Aragorn's mind, of Elrond's Homely House, when she began to hear a distinctive voice. It was obvious: muffled, deep-voiced muttering. Saruman was not expecting company, that much was plain. His deep, incanting voice drew her towards him easily, and she walked with a slow, measured, dampened step. Steady, cautious, and wildly unsure of what to do once she confronted the wizard.

It might have been an eternity as fear and uncertainly built up in her stomach. Slowly, she peaked around a broad archway, and she caught sight of the White Wizard. He was turned away from her, standing in the middle of a broad, open room – yes, it was the great hall of fire. Aila recognized it easily, but she had not time now for intellectualized thoughts of latent meaning. Seeing Saruman inspired her fear to grow and twist, and she had to fight the urge to pull back again and retreat into the relative safety of her own mind. She watched the wizard for several minutes, counting her breaths and attempting to quell the rising panic in her torso, which was quickly trying to overwhelm her chest. As she watched, the wizard did not move from his position: he was slightly hunched, his hands clasped together in front of him and wrapped loosely in a ball that floated somewhere near his chin. His head was bowed, his long white hair flowed down his back and shoulders, blending with the fiber of his beard. And she listened to his incantation. His voice was low, deep, entrancing, his chant methodical. Dumbfounded, his voice drew her into the open – her body filled the doorframe, and she paused for the fraction of a second. And then, with an unsteady step, she crossed the threshold into the great hall, drawn by his voice.

As soon as she was fully within the great hall, Saruman's incantation ceased. He paused, looked surprised, and his body tensed, his spine straightening once more. He turned wildly and suddenly, his robes flying about his ankles. But his eyes did not settle on Aila; they flowed over her as easily as water over a smooth, inconsequential stone. And the wizard made a full turn to look about the room, and saw no one. Facing his original direction, and slightly askew from where Aila stood, the wizard turned his nose up into the air and inhaled deeply, drawing a slow measure of the air into his lungs, searching the content of the room and searching for her.

Aila exhaled silently. She hadn't realized that she had been holding her breath. He couldn't see her; that was important to know. He might have the power to be within Aragorn's mind uninvited, but he did not have her presence, her power, her sight. The wizard seemed powerlessly naked. She didn't realize how silly that thought was.

"I know that you are here," he said slowly, turning his head now, left and right, as though to search her out. His voice was low, ancient, accented. It had a calming, relaxing quality that, had it not been for the warning bells that instantly chimed within Aila's thoughts, might have put her more to ease. "I can sense that you are here," said the Wizard, "and that you are not the Ranger. Who are you?" This last he shouted, terrifying and demanding, but the effect was somewhat diminished because he was shouting at an empty space in the room. His voice missed Aila by a full ninety degrees.

It was only then that Aila looked down to see, astonished, that she was clutching tightly to a long, maliciously curved sword. Had she been holding that the entire time? She wasn't sure, but she also did not know where the sword had come from or how it had come to be in her grasp. She had certainly never seen the sword before. And though it was not Núadin, it hummed and vibrated in her hand, anxious and angry and ready.

"Get out," she said to the wizard, trying to inject some command and strength into her voice. She was glad to hear that her voice filled the room, her tone rebounding from every corner and inundating the large space with her words. Saruman would not be able to locate her by sound, which seemed to Aila to further increase her advantage. The wizard, realizing this, gained a new look of frustration and annoyance. "Get out," she said again, her voice echoing. She sounded powerful. It very nearly brought a smile to her lips. "You are not welcome here."

"Who are you?" the wizard demanded again, holding his long white staff before him, diagonally like a shield. He was gently prodding the air with the tip of the staff, as one might approach a dangerous animal. His right hand he also held before him, palm out and flat in a defensive manner. "Why are you here? How came you to be in this place?" he asked, and then suddenly his voice was softer, quieter. His nose was still thrust forward, testing the air. Bristled, heavy, gray eyebrows lowered over his malevolently gleaming eyes. "What are you?" he asked, more keenly. "You do not smell like a wizard."

"I am not a wizard," Aila replied, tightening her grip on her sword. She was walking towards him, inching her way nearer. If she could only get in one good attack ... if she could only somehow get to him before he figured out a way to see her, to detect where she was. She did not feel inclined to elaborate – the less that Saruman knew about her, the better. She remembered the warning words of Gandalf, spoken so many months ago. But she needed to engage with the wizard, to distract him, at least until she could get within her sword's range. It was a dangerous game to play.

"Not a wizard," said Saruman, echoing her words, continuing his endless movement. He was turning, sniffing, thrusting his head about, squinting his eyes as though that would help him to see her. His staff also moved perpetually, in lazy circles, swinging this way and that, slowly and methodically and in a measured pattern. "Not a wizard." He seemed deep in thought. After the contemplation of a minute or two, a sinister light fell onto the wizard's eyes, and his mouth twisted into a sickening grin, exposed and evident even through the thick tufts of his white beard. Aila was still several feet out of range when he said, "Dolràor?" It was a guess, his tongue bent viciously around the pronounced r's. Aila did not respond, she didn't recognize the word, but rather she continued to inch forward toward him, delicately placing each footstep to minimize its sound and disturbance in the air around her. And then the wizard said, his voice barely above level of an intimate whisper: "_Intyalle_."

She froze.

"Ah," said the wizard, his voice growing steadier in tenor and volume. "She responds ... and to the elvish word, but not its common-tongue cousin. That is interesting," his staff ceased its movement and thudded to the ground in front of him, obstinately planted. He was looking in Aila's general direction, but gazing eerily through her. "But there are no _Intyalle_, of Elf-kind or otherwise. Perhaps you have been trained by the Witch of Lórien in her crude skill. But it will not avail you here, Elf!" said the wizard, his voice gaining confidence and not a little threat. "You have no power here!" And with that, he thrust his staff forward toward her, and would have hit her, though he swung blindly, if she did not raise her sword to block his movement.

And with this easy deflection, the wizard knew exactly where she was.

She had lost her advantage, and so with fear and desperation, she attacked. Perhaps it was not the most spectacular of fights, or the most elegant, or challenging, but the wizard seemed to anticipate her attacks and thrusts though he could not see her. His lips were already busy in muttering some invocation. It was frustrating, and she was angry, and she was, more to the point, exhausted. Each heavy word that escaped Saruman's lips seemed to drain even more energy from her. And even her mind was weak and weary after days of running. And so, with a wild desperation, she swung her sword directly down on Saruman's staff itself, and was gladly surprised when the sharp sword cut the staff easily in twain. The wizard, as easily surprised by not pleased at all, lost a moment of movement as he contemplated the broken staff in his hands. Aila took advantage of this last opportunity and swung her sword, two-handed, into his waist.

The sword cut easily through his body, because his body was of no substance at all, it offered no resistance. The sword moved through his body as effortlessly as through smoke. And the wizard looked, again, surprised. And defeated. His body began to wisp away, melting into smoke and drifting to the ceiling and out of the wide windows. With one last furious look, and silent words from angry lips, the wizard disappeared.

Aila held her breath, not eager to inhale any of the smoke, until it was fully dissipated. And then Saruman the White was gone. She ran quickly then through the rest of the Last Homely House and found no more sign of the wizard. But as she was about to return again to her physical body, she realized that the wizard could easily return as soon as she vacated Aragorn's mind. And so, closing her eyes tight, she tried to summon a few of her other Mind Wraiths to the halls of Aragorn's mind. When she opened her eyes, three of her look-alikes were standing before her. They nodded wordlessly, and Aila was able to open her eyes again to the darkness of the Rohan night.

She lifted her fingers from Aragorn's hand and sleepily rubbed at her eyes, balling her hands into fists and trying to wipe away the drowsiness that pulled at the corners of her eyes. She was exhausted. She could very easily lie down and fall to sleep immediately. But Aragorn had only been the beginning. One down. With a sleepy gesture, she placed her right hand on Gimli's shoulder and closed her eyes once more.

And Aila was in his mind immediately. Gimli's mind was, of course, a network of awe-inspiring and well-wrought caves. She was standing now in a great chamber hall, reminiscent of the broad, grand hall they had seen in the Mines of Moria, but which was bright, well-lit, and cheery – or, it should have been. The space now was darkened by some indefinable haze which dampened the light and strangled all sound. Saruman's influence, no doubt.

Beside her stood Gimli, axe in hand and ready, obviously unwilling to allow Aila to have all the fun by herself. It was sweet, really, but she knew that he couldn't help. He was as blind as Saruman. She appreciate the gesture, none-the-less.

"Wait," she whispered to Gimli, so that he would know she was there. Gimli's Wraith raised his axe at the sound of her whispering voice, and his head turned in her direction, eyes wide and unseeing.

"Aila?" the Dwarf called out to her. But it did not come from the mouth of the Wraith, but rather seeped out of every direction, filling Gimli's mind with her name. She winced.

And from a small sub-chamber, emerged the White Wizard. "Aila," he said, his voice rather pleased and satisfied. "So good to make your acquaintance." Just as she noticed that his staff was once more in one piece, the wizard began chanting an intricate invocation, peppering her name heavily throughout. The spell hit Aila with a force that knocked her half a step backward, and her eyes closed involuntarily with a sudden, extreme weariness. But she immediately knew what he was doing, and she knew also that she had only a short time to fight it. So she ran forward, sword in hand, recklessly advancing on the wizard to attack.

Her sword sliced through him again, easily. He made no effort to resist, which surprised her until she realized his true intention. As his body disappeared into smoke, his hand lurched forward, grabbing her upper arm – his long, thin fingers were tight, and painful, thin needles driving into the flesh of her arm. His milky blue eyes bore directly into hers, and he smiled evilly, saying, "I see you, Aila." And then he disappeared. As the smoke floated away, dissipating into the air, she heard him say, "I know your face."

When she was back in her physical body, she hunched forward and put her face into her hands. She was panting heavily now, the strain of using her power was wearing at her. Once again, she had left a trio of sentries in Gimli's mind, and the upkeep of staying within both of their minds was exhausting. Two down. There was still one to go. And she just wasn't sure that she had the energy.

Aila looked up at Aragorn. "He saw me," she said. "He knows my name and my face."

"What does it mean?" asked the Ranger.

"I don't know," she sighed. She was so tired, she was on the verge of tears. "But it can't be good. It was Gandalf, after all, who warned that Saruman should know nothing of me. And now I'm exposed to him, at least in that I am a Mind Walker ... though, at first he believed me to be an Elf with power like Galadriel's."

"Well, then, that is good," said Gimli quickly. "Let the old man believe that you are an Elf."

"He won't think that anymore," said Aila sharply, angrily, "I said that he saw me. You don't need to look at me very long to realize that I am not an Elf."

"Aila," said Aragorn, in a voice like a parent gently correcting their offspring. "You know that we cannot let you fall to any harm. We shall only have to be extra vigilant. And with our strength restored, you know that we cannot fail you."

She only nodded to Aragorn, and then she looked to Legolas. His dark blue eyes seemed to glow in the darkness, of their own intrinsic luminescence. She did not need to touch him: she had been in his mind before, so she only stared into his eyes for a few moments.

And then she was in the bright green forest of Legolas' mind. Had she even closed her eyes? He had pulled her into his mind readily.

The forest was as vibrant and colorful and magical as she remembered. It was late afternoon or early evening here, and the sun came slanting through the trees, leaving golden pools of light on the soft loam of the forest floor. There was no darkness here, no crushing influence of Saruman. She closed her eyes and tried to seek the White Wizard out, but he was nowhere to be found. He was not there. Perhaps he had never been there, or perhaps he had fled after seeing her face – having gotten what he wanted.

But just as she was confirming to herself that Saruman was nowhere within Legolas' mind, she heard the hurried movement of footsteps along the path near to her. She opened her eyes and looked to see Legolas walking quickly toward her, hastily, but with his hands out before him, searching and unsteady. He didn't want to bump into her as he walked toward her. When he was ten feet from her, he stopped on the path, and held out his hands, turning his nose to the air, trying to find her. "Aila?" a voice in the forest called out to her, bouncing from every corner of the forest.

She walked up to him, closing the gap between them, and she wrapped her fingers around his outstretched hands. And then he could see her; his blue eyes swiveled until they settled on her face. He said her name again, "Aila," but this time it did not echo through the forest, but came only from the lips of Legolas' Wraith. Softly, whispering. He wasted no time now in putting his arms around her shoulders and pulling her against his chest. She gladly accepted his embrace, pressing her cheek against his collarbone and closing her eyes, putting her own arms tightly around his torso. His fingers splayed against her back, covering every inch of her that he could, and he pulled her close against him, so that her entire body was pressed against his. And he inclined his head also, resting his cheek against the crown of her head.

Neither said anything. Perhaps it was that they didn't need to say anything. Perhaps words would have broken the spell of that embrace.

They stayed this way for a long time.

An indefinable time later, there were the ghosts of hands on Aila's shoulders, roughly shaking her out of this pleasant reverie. Every ounce of her strength was focused on staying in this place, remaining with Legolas, but the jostling of her physical body pulled her, once more, back into the dark Rohan night.

Aragorn was crouched over her, she was hunched down where she sat, face still in her hands. The Ranger's hands were tight on her shoulders, roughly shaking, and he was repeating her name: "Aila? Aila!" Groggily, she looked up at him. When he saw her roused, he muttered a thank you to the gods in elvish.

"I'm tired," she said weakly. She looked up at Legolas, though his eyes were still closed, as one who is trying to hold on to a memory that is already seeping out of consciousness. But when he opened his eyes again, he only looked at Aila sadly, dolefully. And then he turned his back on her, and stared out into the north.

. . .

Aila was deep in sleep, such a sleep that was broken by no dreams or nightmares, interrupted by no tossing or turning. She was motionless, dead-to-the-world. And so it took a long time for her to puzzle out the meaning of the small sensations which were moving over her skin. Fingers against her cheek, gentle hands on her shoulders, shaking her, jostling her body, fingertips brushing her eyelids. Her buried consciousness could not understand, until, suddenly, she jolted awake.

It was Legolas that crouched over her, his hands on her arms, pulling her up into a sitting position now that she was awake. She tried to shake drowse from her eyes and her head as he pulled her up to stand.

"Come," he whispered to her, "come. A friend comes in the night."

The Moon had already disappeared below the horizon. Aragorn and Gimli were still asleep on the ground, not far from them. What was Legolas doing? What did he mean? She was too groggy to think. He guided her steps, a strong arm around her waist. She was not even conscious enough to walk properly, but he led her some several yards away from Aragorn and Gimli. A friend comes in the night? What did it mean? she wondered.

And it was so dark, she might not have even seen him.

Duke.

Duke! His black fur blended so easily into the light-starved night that she nearly missed him entirely. But there he was!: the two brown spots on his chest were glaringly obvious in his fur-coat, and the two brown spots over his eyes nearly glowed as well. He was sitting, tall and prim, and his long pink tongue was lolling from the side of his mouth as he panted. His sharp white teeth were exposed. He seemed to be grinning broadly at her.

Aila fell to her knees in front of him, throwing her arms around the dog's neck and pressing her lips against every accessible bit of fur on his face. The dog gave a quiet, muffled _yip_, and his entire body was shaking with excitement. Her arms tightened around him, and she squeezed until she thought the pressure might hurt him. Her cheeks, and the fur of his neck, were wet with her tears. Finally, the dog could stand to be held no longer and he backed out of her arms, and nudged her face with his nose, licking her all over her face and neck, moving his slippery wet tongue over her exposed skin with alacrity and an evident exhilaration.

She lifted her hands to try to block the Doberman, to push his face away from hers, to stop the intense licking, but she could not push him off. And it brought a wide smile to her face, almost painfully straining the muscles of her cheek that had not smiled in a long time. A soft, breathy laugh escaped her throat and wafted into the night. It was this laugh, probably, that brought Legolas around, so that he stood in front of her where she sat on the ground with the dog. He looked at her keenly, watching Duke lick her face, memorizing the width of her smile.

It took a long time for the dog to calm down again, and then he sat back down, panting and still. Aila rolled back off of her knees and sat down, bending her legs in front of her and wrapping her arms, once more, around the dog's neck and shoulders. She pressed her face against his fur, listening to his heartbeat and feeling the movement of his body with each breath. And as she sat, her cheek pressed against the dog's soft fur, every thought, every emotion, each feeling of guilt and anger and fear which she had been avoiding for three full days came flooding back into her.

She looked up to Legolas, tears brimming over the edges of her eyes, turning them to a familiar, color-drained green; and when the Elf saw her face, her distraught expression, his quickly moved to his knees on the ground in front of her, placing a hesitant hand on her shoulder. Aila closed her eyes and pressed her face into Duke's fur again. Her voice was muffled as she spoke into the dog's hair, but Legolas heard her none-the-less. She said, "I'm sorry, Legolas. I'm sorry. I had only meant to save him, but I've made everything so much worse."

"Aila," the Elf said, softly, so that she could barely hear his whispering voice.

Aila shook her head, turning her face to look at Legolas. "And now, you and I," she whispered in return, her voice very nearly choked by the onrush of tears. "We're broken."

Legolas' hand moved slowly from her shoulder to twine his fingers into her hair, and he leaned forward toward her. Delicately, he pressed his head against hers, so that their temples met. Aila screwed her eyes tightly closed as he did this, and she heard him whisper, "Yes. We are broken. But I cannot give up hope that we might mend."

Aila moved her hand to wrap her fingers around the back of Legolas' neck, holding his head in place against hers, temple to temple. Her other arm was still wrapped around Duke. And though nothing was normal, Aila felt calmed.

And again, they didn't move for a long time.

. . .

In the morning, both Aragorn and Gimli exclaimed at the sudden appearance of Duke.

"He should still be in Rivendell," said Aila, with a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. She was more glad that Duke was with her again, and had little interest in deciphering the meaning of any puzzle within it. "Or in Lórien. I had asked Glorfindel to take Duke with him when he went there."

"It is probable that Glorfindel did this, and that the Lady Galadriel sent Tarthalion to us here," said Legolas, using the elves' name for her dog. He gestured to the dog's collar, which Aila only noticed now was not the silver collar which Duke had worn in Imladris. It was a gray-green rope, braided in an intricate style, and set against the dog's throat was a large, gleaming emerald the size of a robin's egg.

"What is it?" said Gimli, voicing the question on the minds of the others.

"That is a gift for Aearvenel which had been kept in Lórien for her arrival. I had wondered when Galadriel did not give this stone to Aila when we departed from the land, but I guessed that she had another intention for the stone. It is obvious to us now that she did. The stone is meant to strengthen the heart and will of those near to its bearer. It was meant to be worn by Aila herself, and perhaps intended to quell any misgivings of the elves as she led them into the West. But in giving it, instead, to Tarthalion ... I can only guess at the wisdom in this choice. It might work to enliven Aila as well as ourselves."

Aragorn laughed, shaking his head, and looked at Aila, saying only: "A gift!"

It was the fourth day of their chase, and they began that morning with newly lightened hearts, their minds free of Saruman's influence, and with a new companion trailing at their feet. Indeed, running with Duke at her side felt easy to Aila. It recalled to her mind memories of running along the Charles River with the dog, and so running through the Rohan countryside with Duke felt routine, simple, unchallenging. Though she had also become so accustomed to his jangling chain collar that to see the dog move silently along the ground at her side was strangely disconcerting.

They only ran for about an hour, when Aragorn's voice rose up to call them to a halt.

"Riders!" he called, pointing in the direction of a small and distant dust cloud. Aila could barely see it. "Many riders on swift steeds are coming towards us!"

"Yes," replied Legolas, moving a flat hand to his eyebrows to shield the sun from his eyes. He seemed to be staring at the distance, when he said, "There are one hundred and five. Yellow is their hair, and bright are their spears. Their leader is very tall."

"Keen are the eyes of Elves," replied Aragorn, not without some wonder. He was squinting, as though he could confirm what Legolas said.

"Nay!" replied the Elf. "The riders are little more than five leagues distant."

Gimli grunted. "Five leagues or one, we cannot escape them in this bare land. What say you, Aragorn? Shall we wait for them here or go on our way?"

Aragorn considered the options for a few moments. He looked to Legolas, and to Aila, and then for a long time, his eyes rested on Duke. The Doberman sat on his haunches, tongue lolled merrily from his mouth. He gave one soft _woof_ that seemed to settle the decision for Aragorn.

"We will wait. Our hunt has failed – or at least others were before us; for these horseman are riding back down the orc-trail. We may get news from them."

"Or spears," muttered Gimli.

"There are three empty saddles," said Legolas, still staring into the distance where the dust cloud was growing. "But I see no hobbits."

"I did not say that we should hear good news," responded Aragorn sadly. "But evil or good, we will wait here." And so the three of them moved slowly, mournfully, like a funeral march, down to the base of the hill they were standing on to wait for the riders. Only Aila and Duke walked lightly. Aila, because she was actually quite looking forward to meeting the horse-lords of Rohan. And because horses would be a welcome addition to their northward chase. And Duke, because he was only glad to be reunited, finally, with his mistress.

"What do you know of these horsemen, Aragorn?" asked Gimli, his voice uneasy, as they settled in the place where they would wait for the horsemen. "Do we sit here waiting for sudden death?" Aila sat on the ground beside Duke, her hand resting lightly on his back. Aragorn sat on the dog's other side, and Gimli beyond him. Legolas remained standing, his hood pulled up and the cloak pulled tightly around his shoulders.

"I have been among them," said Aragorn, in answer to Gimli's question. "They are proud and willful, but they are true-hearted, generous in thought and deed; bold but not cruel; wise but unlearned, writing no books but singing many songs, after the manner of the children of Men before the Dark Years. They have long been friends of the people of Gondor, though they are not akin to them. They are Men both tall and fair. But I do not know what has happened here of late, nor in what mind the Rohirrim may now be between the traitor Saruman and the threat of Sauron." He sighed, his eyes turned north. "At least they will not love the Orcs."

"You will soon learn what they are for yourself, Gimli son of Glóin!" responded Legolas. "Already they approach."

And were Aila thinking clearly, she might have been more wary than she was as the horsemen approached. The horsemen galloped past in pairs, their great horses kicking up dust and creating a noise with their hooves like thunder. Aila watched in wordless amazement. The horses were beautiful: strong and clean-limbed, with glistening gray coats and black manes that were braided on long, proud necks. Each horse wore a long, gleaming golden helm which reached down with a slender finger to shield the horse's face and nose. And their riders! They matched their horses well, those tall and long-limbed Men. Their hair was blonde, flaxen-pale, and it flowed in the wind in braids beneath their bright helms. Their faces were stern, fell and fair to gaze upon. Each rider held his back straight, and in his hand he grasped a long spear of ash, or a painted shield bearing the device of a prancing white horse with a thick body and slender legs. Long swords were hanging in their belts, and radiant shirts of silver mail hung down to their knees.

They galloped by, none of them seeming to perceive the travelers that sat patiently, silently, not ten yards from their parading line. And the four only watched. Aila watched open-mouthed, Gimli muttered darkly, Legolas' eyes were shining with wonder, and Aragorn was watching keenly. The host had almost passed, when suddenly Aragorn stood up, raising his hands to the air, and he called in a loud voice:

"What news from the north, Riders of Rohan?"


	33. Riders of Rohan

Author's Note: 'What is this?' you might ask. Why, it's another chapter! 'But wait,' you say, 'it hasn't been an absurd amount of time between chapters in which I languished, my life devoid of meaning or pleasure, with no updates to be seen!' Well, gracious (and beautiful and intelligent and discerning) reader: here's a treat!

Also, I think you should know that I am posting this using questionable wi-fi while on a bus heading to New York. How's that for some serious dedication?

Enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 33 Riders of Rohan

"What news from the North, Riders of Rohan?"

Though Aila had been expecting the Ranger to stand and hail the passing horsemen, it still surprised her when his voice rang out, strong and bold, over the thundering of the horses' hooves. She and Gimli both clamored to their feet, ungainly, hurriedly, to stand beside Aragorn. Legolas, who had remained standing, was already near to the Man's shoulder. Gimli stood quickly to Aragorn's other side, and Legolas, with a silent look to Aila, brought her to stand behind him, somewhere in the space between the Elf and Aragorn. Duke trotted forward, following closely at her heels, and the Doberman was shielded almost entirely behind the Elf's legs.

At the sudden sight and sound of Aragorn, loud shouts began among the host of riders, and they each called ahead, in a foreign tongue, to the riders before them. In this manner, the message traveled that strangers were in their lands, and the Riders of the Rohirrim began to circle round, a flurry of horse-legs and spears and flying manes of blond hair. The riders circled the four for a few minutes, until out of their ranks emerged their leader: it was plain to see that he was their leader, anyway. He was tall, taller than the rest, and broad of frame. A white crest of horsetail flowed from the peak of his helm. His ashen spear was lowered, pointed forward, and he advanced through the other riders, who slowed to a stop as he moved through them, until the point of his spear was within a foot of Aragorn's chest. But Aragorn did not stir.

The horse-lord eyed Aragorn sharply, matching the Ranger's intent gaze and more besides. "Who are you?" demanded the Rider. "And what are you doing in this land?"

"I am called Strider," the Ranger responded, and Aila did not wonder that he did not give his true name. "I came out of the North. I am hunting Orcs." His speech was perfunctory, purposeful. The Rider seemed to appreciate his reservation of tongue.

And then the leader of the horsemen leapt down from his steed, taking up his spear and handing it to a similarly flaxen-haired Rider who dismounted at his side. In exchange for the spear, the foremost Rider drew his sword from his belt, and stood face to face with Aragorn. His dark eyes surveyed the Ranger keenly, a deep frown on his face, but it was evident to Aila that he looked on their party with not a little wonder. At length, he spoke again, "At first I thought you yourselves were Orcs, but now I see that it is not so. Indeed, you know little of Orcs, if you go hunting them in this fashion," he scoffed. "They were swift and well-armed, and they were many. You would have changed from hunters to prey, if ever you had overtaken them. But there is something strange about you, Strider," the Rider said, turning his head aside to regard Aragorn through the corner of his eye. His every expression and tone of speech spoke of mistrust. "That is no name for a Man that you give. And strange, too, is your raiment. Have you sprung out of the grass? How did you escape our sight? Are you elvish folk?"

"No. Only one of us is an Elf," replied Aragorn, gesturing to his immediate right. "Legolas from the Woodland Realm in distant Mirkwood." Legolas shifted on his feet, bristling as the Rider looked sharply at him as well. And the leader's eyes shifted to Legolas' left shoulder, looking directly at Aila. As Legolas noticed this, he shifted as well, moving his shoulder closer to Aragorn's, blocking Aila from the Man. Aragorn continued, "But we have passed through Lothlórien, and the gifts and favor of the Lady go with us."

"Then there is a Lady in the Golden Wood, as old tales tell!" exclaimed the Rider, looking now at the companions with a new light. The distrust was not gone, however. "Few escape her nets, they say. These are strange days! But if you have her favor, then you also are net-weavers and sorcerers, maybe. Why do you not speak, silent ones?" he asked, looking to Legolas and Aila, and then to Gimli.

The Dwarf placed his hand firmly on his axe, and puffed out his chest. "Give me your name, horse-master, and I will give you mine, and more besides," was the Dwarf's reply.

The Rider frowned. The other dismounted Rider, some several feet behind the first and nearer to the horses, visibly blanched at Gimli's insubordination. "As for that," replied the leader, "the stranger should declare himself first." Gimli made no move as to acquiesce to the Rider's custom, and so he said, "Yet I am named Éomer son of Éomund, and am called the Third Marshal of the Riddermark."

Gimli nodded, satisfied. "Then Éomer son of Éomund, Third Marshal of Riddermark, let Gimli the Dwarf, Glóin's son, warn you against foolish words. You speak evil of that which is fair beyond the reach of your thought, and only little wit can excuse you."

Now Gimli had done it. The Man stared incredulously down at the Dwarf, and ever fiber of his body tensed at the insult. He brandished his sword. "I would cut off your head, beard and all, Master Dwarf, if it stood but a little higher from the ground."

But he could not move his sword an inch to follow this insult before Legolas' arrow was pointed immediately before the Man's face, drawn tightly. The Elf's blue eyes flashed violently. "He stands not alone," said the Elf. "You would die before your stroke fell." And one hundred and three spears fell down suddenly to point at Legolas' neck and back. Éomer was raising his sword as Aragorn stepped between them, between horse-lord and elven prince. The Ranger had his hands raised, palms flat, in a placating manner. And he spoke several soft words to diffuse the situation. But it was not until Aila raised her hand and placed it, softly, on Legolas' shoulder that the Elf finally lowered his bow and pulled the arrow from its string. A host of spears were lifted and resumed their nonthreatening vertical position. Éomer, however, was not appeased. He looked again from Legolas to Aila, following the length of her arm, from her hand on Legolas' shoulder to her face. Immediately, she wished that she had pulled up her hood to hide her hair.

"Wanderers in the Riddermark would be wise to be less haughty in these days of doubt," said Éomer, his eyes aflame. He was breathing heavily, angrily, his nostrils flared out. He stared hard at Aragorn. "Now tell me your right name!"

"First tell me whom you serve," replied Aragorn coolly. "Are you friend or foe of Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor." It was amazing to Aila, though clearly outnumbered and with little to recommend himself, that Aragorn could still maintain control of the conversation. Éomer, who noticed this also, seethed.

"I serve only the Lord of the Mark, Théoden king son of Thengel," the Rider said through his teeth. His dark eyes were wide and angry. His eyebrows were furrowed low and drawn tightly together over the bridge of his nose. "Come!" said Éomer loudly, obviously in no mood to continue with any games. "Who are you? Whom do you serve? At whose command do you hunt Orcs in our land?"

"I serve no man," replied Aragorn, his chin raised in a dignified manner, though his tone was not arrogant, but plaintive. "But the servants of Sauron I pursue into whatever land they may go. There are few among mortal Men who know more of Orcs; and I do not hunt them in this fashion out of choice," he said, addressing the chief insult which Éomer had led against him. "The Orcs whom we pursued took captive two of my friends. In such a need a man that has no horse will go on foot, and he will not ask for leave to follow the trail," he said proudly. "Nor will he count the heads of the enemy, save with a sword. And I am not weaponless." Dramatically, the Ranger threw the left side of his cloak back, exposing his left hip and the sword which hung, previously unnoted, on his belt. This sword he drew, and its ringing could be heard over the hushed silence of the Riders as they watched. Éomer was silent. "Elendil!" cried Aragorn, "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and am called Elessar, the Elfstone, Dúnedan, the heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Gondor. Here is the Sword that was Broken and is forged again!" And Aragorn held the gleaming sword before him, as a beacon, for all the Riders to see. The hushed silence grew to a tumultuous whisper, and died again. As Aila looked at Aragorn, she saw, finally, a regal and magnificent figure. He was not the ragged, world-weary Ranger that she had been traveling with these many weeks. This Aragorn, she thought, looked a proper king. Aragorn's bright gray eyes glinted as he glared at Éomer. "Will you aid me or thwart me?" he asked the horse-lord. "Choose swiftly!"

The whispers erupted again as Éomer fell to one knee before Aragorn, bowing his head reverently. He quickly re-sheathed his own sword. "These are strange days!" cried Éomer, as he rose back to his feet, but he kept his head respectfully inclined toward Aragorn. "Dreams and legends spring to life out of the grass. Tell me, lord, what brings you here?" asked the Third Marshal. "And what was the meaning of the dark words? Long has Boromir son of Denethor been gone seeking an answer, and the horse that we lent him came back rider-less. What doom do you bring out of the North?"

"The doom of choice," replied Aragorn cryptically. "You may say this to your king, Théoden son of Thengel: open war lies before him, with Sauron or against him. But of these great matters we will speak later. If chance allows, I will come myself to the king. But now I am in great need, and I ask for help, or at least for tidings. You have heard that we are pursuing an orc-host that carried off our friends. What can you tell us?"

Éomer lifted his hand and touched the first knuckle of his index finger to his brow. An odd mark of respect, Aila thought. "That you need not pursue them further. The Orcs are destroyed."

"And our friends?" asked Gimli, unable to wait for Aragorn to ask the same.

"We found none but Orcs," said Éomer after a pause. His dark brown eyes, almost black in color, were sad, sympathetic for their loss.

"But that is strange indeed," replied Aragorn, lifting a thoughtful hand to his lips. "Did you search the slain? Were there no bodies other than those of orc-kind? They would be small, only children to your eyes, unshod but clad in grey." His voice was soft, and Aila thought he sounded a little desperate. She was desperate herself, that they hear good news of Merry and Pippin.

"There were no dwarves nor children. We counted all the slain and despoiled them, and then we piled the carcasses and burned them, as is our custom. The ashes are smoking still," he gestured noncommittally to the north.

"We do not speak of dwarves or children," replied Gimli sharply, his voice sour, urgent. "Our friends were hobbits."

"Hobbits?" exclaimed Éomer, a sudden laugh on his lips. "Hobbits! But they are only a little people in old songs and children's tales out of the North. Do we walk in legends or on the green earth in the daylight?"

"A man may do both," replied Aragorn, "for not we but those who come after will make the legends of our time. The green earth, say you? That is a mighty matter of legend, though you tread it under the light of day!"

"Indeed," came Legolas' voice, and he was frowning at the horse-lord. "The memory of Men is so short, and makes legend so swift, that you may become a figment of your own imagination before your life is through." Aila put her hand to her lips to stifle a laugh. Never before had she so appreciated Legolas' strong bent for humor, though now he showed no outward sign but to press his lips tightly together on a thin line.

"Time is pressing, my lord," said Éomer's second, who was standing only a few feet behind the Third Marshal. His hand was unfailingly on the reins of his horse, prepared to leap upon it at any moment. "We must hasten south, lord. Let us leave these wild folk to their fancies." The Man frowned openly at Legolas. "Or let us bind them and take them to the king."

"Peace, Éothain!" said Éomer to the other. "Leave us a while." And with a thoughtless wave, he sent Éothain off, and the rest of the host of Rohirrim followed after the second-in-command, leaving Éomer to commune with the four strangers in his land. Éothain threw one last look of disdain over his shoulder as his horse trotted away. "All that you say is strange, Aragorn," said the horse-master when the others had left their small party. "Yet you speak the truth, that is plain: the Men of the Mark do not lie, and therefore are not easily deceived. But you have not told all. Will you not now speak more fully of your errand, so that I may judge what to do?"

"I set out from Imladris," said Aragorn, acknowledging the Man's request. "As it is named in the rhyme, many weeks ago. With me went Boromir of Minas Tirith. My errand was to go to that city with the son of Denethor to aid his folk in their war against Sauron. But the company that I journeyed with had other business. Of that I cannot speak now. Gandalf the Grey was our leader."

"Gandalf!" cried Éomer, shaking his head. "Gandalf Greyhame is known in the Mark; but his name, I warn you, is no longer a password to the king's favor. He has been a guest in this land many times in the memory of men, coming as he will, after a season, or after many years. He is ever the herald of strange events: a bringer of evil, some now say. Indeed, since his last coming in the summer all things have gone amiss."

"You speak again of what you do not understand," said Aila sharply, unhappy to hear any ill-speak of Gandalf. Gimli might rally to defend Galadriel, but Aila had her own champion. Éomer's attention was again on her for a moment, and Legolas shifted uncomfortably in front of her. Aila saw the familiar muscle popping in the Elf's jaw.

"You may well be right," Éomer said to her. "It was at that time that our trouble with Saruman began. Until then we counted Saruman our friend, but Gandalf came then and warned us that sudden war was preparing in Isengard. But Théoden would not listen to him, and he went away. Speak not the name of Gandalf loudly in Théoden's ears! He is wroth. For Gandalf took the horse that is called Shadowfax, the most precious of all the king's steeds, chief of the _Maeras_, which only the Lord of the Mark may ride. Seven nights ago Shadowfax returned; but the king's anger is not less, for now the horse is wild and will let no man handle him."

"Then Shadowfax has found his way home alone from the far North," said Aragorn, sadly. "For it was there that he and Gandalf parted. But alas! Gandalf will ride no longer. He fell into darkness in the Mines of Moria and comes not again."

Éomer's expression sobered. "That is heavy tidings. At least to me," he said, pointedly looking to Aila. "And to many: though not to all, as you may find, if you come to the king."

"It is tidings more grievous than any in this land can understand," said Aragorn sharply, "though it may touch them sorely ere the year is much older. But when the great fall, the less must lead. And that has been my part, to guide our Company on the long road from Moria. Through Lórien we came – of which it were well that you should learn the truth ere you speak of it again – and thence down the leagues of the Great River to the falls of Rauros ..."

Aragorn's speech slowed, and Aila's voice leapt up to interrupt him. She said quickly, "And there Boromir was slain by the very same Orcs whom you destroyed." And then Aragorn and Legolas looked to her, their expressions both sharp and surprised. But after a moment, Aragorn nodded, accepting this new truth of events. Legolas looked at Aila a moment longer, and he reached back to clasp her hand in his. His fingers squeezed hers, briefly. Aila could very nearly hear a section of the wall which was built up between them crumble.

Éomer frowned; he seemed annoyed to have his attention continuously brought to Aila, who stood hidden behind Aragorn and Legolas, and whom it was evident that Legolas, at least, desired that he not see. He exclaimed, exasperated, "Your news is all of woe! Great harm is this death to Minas Tirith, and to us all. That was a worthy man! He came seldom to the Mark, but I have seen him. More like to the swift sons of Eorl than to the grave Men of Gondor he seemed to me, and likely to prove a great captain of his people when his time came. But we have had no word of this grief out of Gondor. When did he fall?"

"It is now the fourth day since he was slain," replied Aragorn, lifting a hand to his breast. "And since the evening of that day we have journeyed from the shadow of Tol Brandir."

"On foot?" came Éomer's incredulous reply.

"Yes," said Aragorn plainly, spreading his hands wide. "Even as you see us."

With wide eyes, filled with wonder, Éomer shifted his gaze from Aragorn, to Aila, and down to Gimli, as he allowed Aragorn's full words and meaning to sink in. At last, he said, breathlessly, "Strider is too poor a name, son of Arathorn. Wingfoot, I name you. This deed should be sung in many a hall! Forty leagues and five you have measured ere the fourth day is ended! Hardy is the race of Elendil!" And then he shook his head, opening his palms up in obvious dismay, as he asked, "But now, lord, what would you have me do? I must return in haste to Théoden. It is true that we are not yet at open war with the Black Land, but war is coming. We shall not forsake our old alliance with Gondor, and while they fight, we shall aid them; so say I and all who hold with me," he said proudly.

"Then you do not pay tribute to Sauron?" asked Gimli, tactlessly. The Man frowned deeply at him.

"We do not and we never have," he said sharply. "Though it comes to my ears that that lie has been told. Some years ago the Lord of the Black Land wished to purchase horses of us at great price, but we refused him, for he puts beasts to evil use. Then, he sent plundering Orcs, and they carry off what they can, choosing always the black horses: few of these are now left. For that reason our feud with the Orcs is bitter. But at this time our chief concern is with Saruman," Éomer continued. "He has claimed lordship over all this land, and there has been war between us for many months. He has taken Orcs into his service, and Wolf-riders, and evil Men, and he has closed the Gap against us, so that we are likely to be beset both east and west. It is ill dealing with such a foe. He walks here and there, they say, as an old man hooded and cloaked – very like to Gandalf, as many now recall. I do not know how it will all end, and my heart misgives me; for it seems to me that his friends do not all dwell in Isengard," said Éomer with a sly look in his eye. He frowned, with a slightly disgusted look on his face at some distasteful thought, and he said: "But if you come to the king's house, you shall see for yourself. Will you not come? Do I hope in vain that you have been sent to me for a help in doubt and need?"

"I will come when I may," replied Aragorn.

"Come now!" urged Éomer, his eyebrows flying high on his forehead, as though to convince the Ranger with his earnestness. "The Heir of Elendil would be a strength indeed to the Sons of Eorl in this evil tide. There is battle even now upon the Westemnet, and I fear that it may go ill for us. So we are needed south and west. Will you not come? There are spare horses as you see," said the Third Marshal, with a wild gesture behind him. His words were beginning to flow swiftly, and an accent was descending onto each of his words in his excitement. "There is work for the Sword to do. Yes, and we could find a use for Gimli's axe and the bow of Legolas, if they will pardon my rash words concerning the Lady of the Wood. I spoke only as do all men in my land, and I would gladly learn better."

Gimli grunted incoherently, and Legolas shifted where he stood. Easy forgiveness seemed to be the strong suit of neither.

"I thank you for your fair words," replied Aragorn to Éomer's speech. "And my heart desires to come with you; but I cannot desert my friends while hope remains."

"Hope does not remain," said Éomer flatly. His dark eyes were neutral. "You will not find your friends on the North-borders."

"And yet my friends are not behind," said Aragorn. "We found a clear token not far from the East Wall that one at least of them was still alive there. And our friends were attired even as we are – perhaps it is that you missed them entirely, as you passed us under the full light of day."

Éomer's eyes once again swept quickly over their grey-green clothes. "I had forgotten that," he said quietly. "It is hard to be sure of anything among so many marvels. The world is grown strange. Elf and Dwarf in company walk in our daily fields; and folk speak with the Lady of the Wood and yet live; and the Sword comes back to war that was broke in the long ages ere the fathers of our fathers rode into the Mark! How shall a man judge what to do in such times?"

"As he has ever judged. Good and ill have not changed since yesteryear; nor are they one thing among Elves and Dwarves and another among Men."

"True indeed," replied Éomer, and there was a distraction in his voice as he lost himself in momentary thought. And he lifted a hand to scratch at his chin, hidden beneath a short honey-colored beard. He echoed, "True indeed. But I do not doubt you, nor the deed which my heart would do. Yet I am not free to do all as I would," he said, shaking his head. "It is against our law to let strangers wander at will in our land, until the king himself should give them leave, and more strict is the command in these days of peril. I have begged you to come back willingly with me, and you will not."

Aragorn clasped his hand on Éomer's shoulder in a friendly manner. "I do not think your law was made for such a chance. Nor indeed am I a stranger; for I have been in this land before, more than once, and ridden with the house of the Rohirrim, though under other name and in other guise. You I have not seen before, for you are young, but I have spoken with Éomund your father, and with Théoden son of Thengel. My duty at least is clear, to go on. Come now, son of Éomund, the choice must be made at last. Aid us, or at the worst let us go free."

And for a few moments, Éomer was silent. His dark eyes stared at Aragorn cautiously for a few moments, and then traversed to Gimli, and then to Legolas. Finally, they settled on Aila, though she still stood half-hidden behind Aragorn and Legolas. She rested a hand on Duke's head, between his ears, to ground herself; she had a sudden and indefinable feeling that she wasn't going to like what Éomer was about to say.

"We both have need of haste," said the Third Marshal after a time. "This is my choice. You may go; and what is more, I will lend you horses. For this I ask only two things: first, that when your quest is achieved, or proved vain, that you return with the horses over the Entwade to Meduseld, the high house in Edoras where Théoden sits. Thus you shall prove to him that I have not misjudged. In this I place myself, and maybe my very life, in the keeping of your good faith. Do not fail."

"I will not," swore Aragorn, placing a hand to his breast.

And there was still the matter of his second condition, so Éomer drew a slow breath. "And second," he hesitated for a moment, and his eye settled again on Aila. He said plainly: "That the lady return with me to our city until you have done this."

Gimli's voice rose up and he swore incomprehensibly, mixing the Common Speech and his native tongue. Legolas' body tensed, and he shifted to move himself fully in front of Aila, stretching his arms out and back to shield her, as though Éomer were about to snatch her up right then. The Elf's right hand moved steadily to the knife hilt in his belt. Duke barked and reeled back, displaced by Legolas' sudden movement, and he circled around behind Aila, remaining on his feet, ears standing erect, and he pointed his nose sharply at Éomer around Aragorn's left knee. A low growl emitted from Duke's chest – a sound to which Gimli nodded vigorously, the thick hair of his beard bouncing enthusiastically against the silver mail of his chest. His thick hand was wrapped tightly around the haft of his axe.

Aragorn's hand moved to the dog's head, grazing his fingertips along the tops of the Doberman's ears and he said softly, under his breath, "_Avo drasto, Tarthalion_." And the dog immediately sat back on his haunches, and his ears relaxed from their attentive position, though only a little. Aila stayed silent, her right foot pulled a half-step behind the other, as though ready to turn and run away.

Éomer lifted his hands, palms flat out before him, in a weak attempt to shield himself from the wrath of both Elf and Dwarf. "It is against my inclination to allow a woman to roam in my lands, especially in so doubtful and dangerous times as these. It betrays my honor as _eorlinga_. Indeed, as Third Marshal I am bound to protect those that walk through my lands, be they folk of Eorl or otherwise. And it would be foolish to stake my faith, and possibly my life, on your return to Meduseld without some assurance that you are bound to go there. Should the lady return with me to my city, then I may sleep easy in the dual knowledge that she is safe and that you will come to retrieve her when you quest is complete."

"Has Aragorn not already given you his word that we are bound there once our task in your lands is done?" asked Legolas, venom in his easy tenor.

"This lady," grumbled Gimli, "is sworn to our protection. We cannot allow you to lead her away according to whim! We are duty-bound to her!" And Legolas nodded, curt and nearly imperceptible, but appreciative, at the Dwarf.

"I have set my terms," said Éomer, with a deepening frown. "Do you truly believe that she could be safer out in the wild-lands with only three protectors than in the well-guarded and walled city of Edoras?"

And then Aragorn turned, looking past Legolas, who stared the Ranger down with narrowed eyes, to look straight at Aila. She knew the content of his thoughts even before he spoke, merely by the cautious set of his features and the soft expression in his eyes. He was begging that she understand his meaning. She understood why. "Perhaps," he said slowly, not allowing his eyes to flicker over to Legolas' angry face. "Perhaps it is best that you go with Éomer to Edoras, and wait for our swift arrival there."

"Aragorn!" said Legolas, his voice low and surprised and full of betrayal. His exasperation finally drew Aragorn's attention from Aila, and the Ranger looked to the Elf with a wary and expectant expression. The Elf did not disappoint his caution. "_Ci 'ben-ind? Avon cared i iest gîn!_" Legolas' words were rapid and heated, underlain with an intensity which Aila had not expected. She had never heard him address Aragorn with such a tone bordering on disrespect and profound disbelief. And Aragorn waited, patiently, while Legolas, in this manner, rapidly submitted his complaints to their leader. Once the Elf was finished, or rather took a pause to breathe, Aragorn began to respond coolly and in the same elvish tongue. Aila could tell that his words were doing little to quell the anger and disagreement in the Elf, and though she strained to understand and translate their argument, there was little meaning that she could derive. Excepting the occasional mention of her own name, Aila only caught one more bit of information – and this one word said everything to her that she needed in order to understand the nature of Aragorn's central argument: Saruman.

She looked to Éomer and said firmly, "I'll go."

Aragorn and Legolas halted their argument. Gimli swore again.

"Aragorn's right," Aila said, turning to nod to the Ranger, and then to look with apologetic eyes at Legolas. The Elf stared back at her, slightly agape, and more than slightly alarmed. "It was Gandalf himself who warned against my going too close to Isengard, for fear of the White Wizard learning anything about me. And now that Saruman knows my name, and knows my face, that danger is rather heightened than lessened. It is more hazardous than ever that I go that way. It will be safer for me to go south, to travel to Edoras and wait for you there," she argued, mostly for Legolas' benefit. The Elf did not seem to be seeing her point of view. "And if I'm honest," she said, with an apologetic smile that mitigated somewhat her embarrassment, "I'm exhausted. I cannot continue on this journey in the way that we have been going. I am weaker in body and weaker in will than the three of you, and I feel it to my very core. I would very much welcome the opportunity to rest, to be in a city again."

"Aila," said Legolas, her name trailing with an air of uncertainty from his lips. His blue eyes were still wide in disbelief and obstinance. He turned to face her, inserting his shoulder between herself and Aragorn so that the two of them were separated from the others, singled out and isolated in conversation. For the span of a few long seconds, his eyes only searched her face, roving rapidly, trying to eke out some insinuation that she was not truly intent on leaving their small group. And though his mouth was closed and silent, Aila could see that his mind was working rapidly behind his eyes, sorting through a myriad of wild thoughts. She couldn't track the direction of these thoughts, and gave up entirely on deciphering his expression until he said, in a deliberate and exacting voice, "Will you see me again?"

The question was loaded, that was doubtless, but Aila spent a few tense moments decoding its real meaning. To the naked ear, it sounded as though Legolas were asking her whether he would survive – whether he would live long enough to see her again in Edoras. It was not something she would have expected from the Elf. He had never before impinged on her extraordinary and prophetic knowledge, and also never had he shown any interest in reassuring himself of his own safety using that knowledge. Surely, then, it was not his intent? And it suddenly dawned on her that he was asking whether _she_ would be safe, whether _she _would survive until he could find her again. He was afraid of allowing her to go freely into danger by leaving with the Riders to Edoras – though he could not ask her this plainly because, were she truly in any danger from Éomer, his bald question could risk putting her into further hazard. Of course, Aila didn't know her own fate; to her own path, she was thoroughly and utterly blind. She couldn't know whether she was walking into real danger at Meduseld. But she knew one thing for certain: that to say as much to Legolas would not aid at all in convincing him of her need to go to Edoras with Éomer. And so she smiled weakly again, and said, "Yes, Legolas. I'll see you again. We will all be in Edoras together, ere long." Then she reached a hand down to Duke, and gently scratched the top of his head. "I will show my own good faith in this: take Duke with you – take care of him like you would me. He, and that trinket, will be of more use to the three of you than he will be to me, though I'll miss him dearly. It is sad to only just be reunited to give him up again. But like I said: I trust that I will see him again, and the rest of you, in Edoras before a week has passed."

And so it was settled that Aila was to go to Edoras. Legolas remained wholly unconvinced, though he now kept his silence. His jaw was set tight, and his eyes did not flag from Aila, except to occasion a glance at Duke. The Doberman, obediently, sat placidly at the Elf's feet. The dog's dark brown eyes were also fixed on Aila. Aragorn nodded solemnly. Gimli muttered in a thick tongue.

With a sharp whistle and a wave of his hand, Éomer called to his lieutenant, Éothain, and rapidly explained the situation in their native speech. It was not hard to see the displeasure which Éothain felt; it was written all over his expression, from his dark eyes to the bad-tempered set of his mouth. Three horses were quickly brought forward, regardless, according to Éomer's command.

As the rider-less horses trotted forward, Éothain could not help himself but to say, disdainfully, "It may be well enough for this lord of the race of Gondor, as he claims, but who has heard of a horse of the Mark being given to a Dwarf?"

"No one," replied Gimli, his voice low, dangerous, and dense. "And do not trouble: no one will ever hear of it. I would sooner walk than sit on the back of a beast so great, free or begrudged," he added, with what bordered on a sly look.

"But you must ride now, or you will hinder us," said Aragorn, and Aila could see that some of his good humor was returned. It must have been a heady relief for the Ranger to now have secured horses for their trip – and, as she only just realized, he had the assurance that all three Hunters would shortly arrive safely in Edoras. She herself had said as much.

"Come," said Legolas, not sharing Aragorn's pleasure in the least. "You shall sit behind me, friend Gimli. Then you need neither borrow a horse nor be bothered by one." This was an easy logic, and Gimli was quickly convinced. Aragorn was given a dark gray mount, thick and study, with long legs and a proud neck. A smaller, lighter horse was given to Legolas, and this horse tossed its mane in an anxious manner. The Elf began pulling impatiently at the horse's reins and saddle, swiftly instructing the Riders to remove the gear. "I need them not," he said, with no effort to conceal the contempt coloring his voice. He was keeping his eyes away from Aila now and focusing only on the horse.

The third horse Éomer offered to Aila.

"I cannot ride," she said, after a moment's hesitation. The horse was great – greater even now that it was standing immediately beside her, and she didn't have the faintest idea how to get onto its back, let alone ride the animal.

"No matter," said Éomer, his tone more jovial than Aila might have liked. She spared a worried glance to Legolas – who might have taken Éomer's good mood poorly – but the Elf was staring pointedly at his steed's dancing hooves. "You shall ride with Éothain." At this prospect, the lieutenant's eyes darkened considerably, and he looked at Aila as one might eye a steaming pile of refuse.

"Your pardon," said Aragorn quickly, "but she will ride with you, and you alone, Éomer. As our noble Dwarf has said: this lady's protection is our trust. If you take her from us, then I must be certain that you have pledged to protect her in our stead. She will ride with you; or she will continue with us." And though this was only a small defense, it was enough to lift Legolas' eyes from the ground.

Éomer only laughed, and he leapt onto the back of his enormous horse with ease and agility. And once he had settled in his saddle, he reached a hand to Aila. She placed her hand in his, and then stared wordlessly at the great expanse of the horse, unsure where to begin; but there was little need. Éomer heaved, and then she was upon the back of the horse, settled immediately behind the Rider. Éothain, with a look that he was glad to be leaving these strangers behind (albeit with one of them in tow), leapt to his own horse beside the Third Marshal.

And as they were prepared to depart, Gimli called out to Éomer: "You will answer directly for each of her complaints, Éomer son of Éomund, if you do not keep her well."

"I shall keep her well," replied Éomer, with a broad smile on his face, "so as not to incite the legendary wrath of Gimli the Dwarf."

"It is not this Dwarf's fury that should merit your worry," said Gimli, "but the Elf's."

Legolas did strike a terrifying figure: tall and lean and motionless, his bright blue eyes wide and furious. Only his fingers moved, and only to twitch at his side, as though anxious to take up on of his arrows. His wordless threat was potent and startling. And Éomer seemed to take Gimli's advice then to heart, because he spoke no word but spurred his horse and whistled a command to his host of _éored_, and within moments Aila was moving rapidly away from her only companions in Middle Earth.

. . .

_Avo drasto_ = Relax (more literally: do not trouble yourself)  
_Ci 'ben-ind? _= Have you lost your senses? / Are you mad?  
_Avon cared i iest gîn_ = I refuse to obey


	34. When in Rome

Author's Note: Well, I'm just the worst person ever. I'm sorry, sorry, sorry – so sorry – for the long break in posting. There's a few things which I needed to get right in my head before I could write this chapter, and then it was hard to get into the mood to write. It's important to me that I prepare a good update rather than simply update in a timely manner (if that isn't obvious to you now), but this break has been absurdly long. For which I apologize. I hope you can forgive me, and that you appreciate the effort that I put in to each and every sentence. Your reviews are splendid, inspiring, and, to be frank, quite mind-blowing. I cannot express how elated I am with each comment. Dear reader: you rock.

That said, I am incredibly excited to have Aila in Rohan. It will be interesting to see how she feels around the Men, as she has only really been around Elves so far (with the exceptional exception of the Fellowship). I hope that I have done a good job here in bringing the culture and people of Rohan to life. It is my sincere wish that I do not do these proud _Eorlingas_ any disservice in my portrayal of them, as I love them so. Of course, I have taken some creative license, and so there are a few things regarding the Men of Rohan that I'd like to preemptively explain:

1. It is apparent to me that the Rohirrim are basically Vikings on horses and since I have such a penchant for anything Scandinavian, this suits me quite well. There are some storied Viking rituals which I have borrowed for this chapter and some that I have simply made up.

2. The Rohirric language is represented in this story by Old English. This is partially because Tolkien never really created a Rohirric language, and also mostly because Tolkien himself used Old English to represent the language of Rohan. He had conceptualized this tongue to be an ancestor of the Westron/Common speech and so Old English was apt. This is equally compelling for use in my own story since, as stated above, I want the Rohirrim to have a pseudo-Nordic feel.

Enjoy! And rest assured that Legolas and the rest of our heroes shall not be absent from this story-line for long.

. . .

Ch. 34 When in Rome

It wasn't long before her three companions, and Duke, had disappeared entirely from her sight, their proud figures obscured by the risen cloud of dust, kicked up by the thundering feet of one hundred (and six) horses. Éomer, with Aila, led this expansive, charging clan of horse and horse-master – the _éored_ followed after its leader in the loose shape of an arrowhead – so that Aila's last sight of Aragorn and Legolas were from around the shoulder of a grim and stern Man who had checked his horse to follow immediately after the Third Marshal. She had lost sight of Gimli and Duke, being lower to the ground, some moments before. There was a pang in her chest when she thought now of her separation from these friends, and so she turned her head forward, focusing instead on the Man in front of her and, perhaps most importantly, on the horse beneath her. She would see Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli soon, she reminded herself. And Duke. Her thoughts, instead, should be turned to Edoras and her few days alone among the Rohirrim.

They were riding swiftly, such that Aila had to wrap her arms around Éomer's torso to keep herself from falling backward over the great animal's rump; and she knotted her hands together just above the Man's navel and she pressed her cheek against his back, just between his broad shoulder-blades. And her knees, in turn, she held tightly against the sides of the running horse, in a feeble attempt to support herself as she bounced on the horse's wide back. Little known to her, the pressing insistence of her knees only spurred the horse to a faster and wilder gallop.

The _éored_, led by Éomer's steed in this manner, was making record time.

Perhaps only twenty minutes had passed, or perhaps it had been several hours, but Aila's already broken body felt injured and brutalized by the violence of their swift ride. But the Rohirrim, seasoned horse-men, seemed as comfortable on their mounts as any other might feel on a steady stroll through the countryside. Not so for Aila; and so with each passing moment of her ride, she felt herself to be holding tighter to Éomer, trying to steady herself and to lessen the pain of each rotating stride of his stallion. But these efforts, in fact, did very little toward either endeavor. Sensing such little improvement in her situation, Aila pressed her face solidly against Éomer's back, and she screwed her eyes tightly shut and tried only to endure. Surely, it could not last forever?

And with her head and body so closely situated next to and around the Man, it was unavoidable that his scent would invade her sinuses. The Man's smell was sharp and pungent, immediately unpleasant; a smell of animals, and of earth, and of leather and sweat. Even the strong, steady wind that the swiftness of his horse produced was not enough to blow away this scent before it reached her nose. And though Aila would have liked very much to be completely disgusted by this, the gritty smell of this Man, his smell had a somewhat wooded scent, akin to the razor-sharp pungency of pine; and so, with reluctance, Aila realized that it reminded her of her father.

On the other side of the mirror, Aila's father was a tall and classically handsome man, after the manner of Frank Sinatra or Cary Grant. And though his skin was pocked by old, faded acne-scars and wear, it was also darkened to a warm brown color by long hours of work out-of-doors. His fingers were blunted, squared, by years of manual labor, his nails were kept short by teeth (like Aila) and flat by misplaced hammer-strikes. His hair was gracefully making the transition from midnight-black to steely-silver. He was a carpenter by trade, specializing in cabinetry; and he often smelled of wood and sweat and cherry chap-stick. And so, though its scent burned the edges of her nostrils in an unpleasant manner, the smell of Éomer was oddly comforting and soothing. It made Aila feel grounded and safe.

And human.

Some of the discomfort of the ride faded away.

They rode through the day, those horsemen of Rohan, through the afternoon and through the evening, taking no pause to rest or eat. Their horses charged forward, as fresh and strong and swift as they had been that morning. The Men of the _éored_ themselves were unmoving upon their steeds, each a striking, statuesque figure of willful intent and grim determination. Each was focused only on his task, and that was to ride southward. Their horses, however, were surprisingly active; churning legs, swishing tails, a flurry of tossed manes and flared nostrils – and upon each of these wild, moving animals sat a stony Man, engrossed in thought or lost in some world other than this one.

Aila herself constantly moved and adjusted – realigning her hands, pressing her knees tighter or softer, arching her back to stretch taut muscles, elongating her spine to stick her nose into the pressing wind that screamed just over the Man's shoulder. Though she shifted and moved and wiggled, Éomer seemed to pay her little mind. He rode forward, southward. Ever on. Even the set of his shoulders had a determined and doggedly severe character. She could not see his face, of course, but she imagined it to be as stony and austere as his Riders around him.

The sun set then in the west, beyond the reaching fingers of the northernmost rises of the White Mountains. The Riders of the Rohirrim did not travel much further into the deepening night before they reined in their steeds and themselves, pausing, finally, to rest. The pause came suddenly and surprisingly to Aila, as she did not hear any word of command or gesture from Éomer to indicate to his horse or his company that the time had come to pause. Pause they did, however. As though attuned to its master's slightest whim, Éomer's stallion began to slow, reducing its speed to a swift canter, and then a jaunty and spirited trot, and then to a metrical, slow, and delicate walk. And then, finally, to a halt.

And as the horse's movement finally ceased – again as though one were perfectly attuned to the other – Éomer leapt down from his mount, moving with a speed and agility that Aila would not have expected from his large frame. Once his leather boots were upon the plush grass, he turned and offered a hand to help Aila down after him. She took his proffered hand, and then looked, hesitantly, at the ground, so far away – and she was immediately and unerringly terrified of the long way down. Éomer began pulling before she was ready, still considering the best way to get from saddle to earth; but the Man successfully, and unsteadily, managed to unseat her from the saddle. His arms supported her entirely as she awkwardly came crashing down toward the ground – silently, because her voice was stuck in her fearful throat. But his hands were thick and strong, and they wrapped securely around her waist to steady her, and within the space of only a moment, her feet were settled back on firm ground. She lifted a quiet hand to her brow to ensure that she was still upright and unharmed. Her eyes closed momentarily.

But they were brought open again as the Man asked: "What is your name?" His hands were still tightly around her waist and he was staring at her, his eyes narrowed, with a curious expression. He seemed now to drink her in, his eyes moving swiftly over her face and clothing, and his nostrils were flared outward, perhaps trying to test her own scent. Legolas was not there now to stand in front of her to obscure Éomer's view. And as he looked at her, Aila did the same; noting the depth and darkness of his eyes, flat and cunning even in the night. The Man had a short, dense beard – or, rather, an overgrowth of dark blonde hair on his chin and neck that more resembled wild stubble than true beard – and the dark blonde hair on his face matched in perfect hue the dark blonde hair that was tucked into a broad, loose braid at the base of his skull. Some wisps of his untamed, course hair had escaped the regiment of the braid and framed his face. He had round, ruddy cheeks and a strong, straight nose. His beard – his stubble – framed red lips, slightly parted by curiosity. And for some moments, Aila was silent: staring at him as he stared at her.

"Aila," she responded quietly, blood rushing into her cheeks, and she lifted her hands to lay her palms against his wrists. The intimacy with which they had passed the day, with Aila clutching so tightly to him, gave her sudden embarrassment. The corners of her lips turned up into a small, awkward, apologetic smile. Suddenly conscious of the placement of his hands, at the touch of her palms against his wrists, Éomer dropped them again to his side, and his mouth shut on a long, drawn line. And as he dropped his hands, he also straightened and fully stood up, as he had been hunched slightly forward toward Aila in order to grasp her waist. He was tall, she noted, with not a little awe. He seemed to stretch up toward the heavens right in front of her. Was he taller, even, than Aragorn? For the moment, Aila couldn't think. Her mind was wiped blank.

But with a decisive nod that seemed to effectively affirm something to himself alone, the Man quickly turned his back to Aila, and his fingers worked deftly to remove her pack from the bags which were strapped to the saddle. This pack he thrust quickly into her hands, wordlessly. And then his fingers wrapped securely around the reins of the tall horse and he quietly led the steed away, the only sounds being the heavy, snorting breaths of the animal and the soft plodding of his hooves in the grass. And Aila was left standing, singular, amid the sudden chaos of dismounting Rohirrim who also relieved their horses of their baggage and quietly, also, led them away.

Aila, unsure of what to do or where to go, remained exactly where she was; a solitary statue, a stationary pinpoint, amid the commotion of the horses and Riders. The Riders seemed to be leading their horses, two-by-two, into the very center of their large group, and they tethered the reins of their horses together in an impossibly complicated braid that somehow linked each stamping, snorting, tail-swishing horse to its neighbors on all sides. Two long rows of horses were formed, nose-to-nose; and once that row grew too long, a second complement was added. And once their horses were settled, the Men began themselves to settle down, in winding patterns around the collected horses, a ring of protection around their most valued possessions. They organized themselves into distinct groups, some eight or ten men in a circle, and each of these groups lit a small campfire and went about the business of cooking and eating. Their voices rose up into the air, a gentle and welcoming murmur. Their language, Aila thought, suited them well: it was an exact, cadenced expression of guttural sounds and sharp vowels. One need not speak loudly to elicit differentiation in these sounds, and so their voices were low, and their lips flew merrily about in formation of complicated utterances and rapid speech. And still, Aila stood awkwardly, clutching her pack against her chest, uncertain and unmoving.

It was then that Éomer returned, his own pack slung casually over his shoulder, and he laughed openly when he saw her still standing there, in the same place where he had left her. He waved a hand and she quickly followed after him, some twenty or thirty yards away, to join a group of men who had already built up a fire. These men were constructing also a small tent, only large enough, it seemed, for one of the large, thickly built Men. They called out to Éomer as he approached to join them, and he responded in the same complicated tongue.

Again, Éomer gestured to Aila, and she sank down to sit on the ground within this circle of Men, her pack settled in her lap, her arms wrapped around it. She looked at the fire, and only occasioned a glance at the Men around her when she thought she might get away with observing them unnoticed. She realized that Éothain was among the members of their circle, and he hardly took his eyes away from her. His expression was sour.

"Come," said Éomer once he was seated, cross-legged, on the ground within the circle. He placed his hands on his knees and, even seated, he was taller than any other member of their small circle. Aila hunched over her pack, lowering herself even further. "Pour the cup."

At this simple command, Éothain began to busily remove items from his own pack, and, carefully and with a delicacy which Aila would not have expected from the unhappy Man, he set out a roughly hewn wooden cup and a small water-skin beside it. These instruments he handed directly to Éomer, and the Third Marshal spoke something in their native tongue to the Men gathered within his circle. He poured a bright, clear liquid from the water-skin into the cup; taking great care to pour the drink slowly. The entire scene had a ritualistic quality and the Man moved as through the counted steps of a dance: Éomer stopped pouring the liquid, stared into the cup, poured a little more, reassessed the measure in the cup, topped it off with one last quick drop, and then he was satisfied. He re-screwed the cap of the water-skin to seal its remaining contents, and held the cup aloft before him in both hands. Again, he invocated something in their native tongue, a phrase which the other nine men repeated in kind. Aila was silent, eyes wide as she watched.

But Éomer did not drink from this cup – rather, he passed to the Man immediately to his right. And this Man, after staring into the depths of the wooden cup as if to measure its volume, took a careful, unhurried, deliberate sip from its contents. He said no word once he had done this, but handed it to the Man to his right. And this Man, Éothain, again took measure of the contents before he took his drink. Again, the cup was passed. Each Man, in turn, performed this little ritual; glancing into the cup to measure its remainder, pressing the wooden brim to his lips and, with a great amount of care and attention, imbibed some quantity of its contents. And when the cup reached Aila, it was not handed to her; instead, Éomer, who sat to her right, reached out and took the cup from the Man who sat to her left. She breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Éomer looked into the contents of the cup for a few moments, swishing the remaining liquid around at the bottom of the wooden vessel, before looking up to the Men around the circle and smiling. "Very well done," he said, in the Common Speech, and he tilted his head back, swiftly draining the remaining contents of the drink. And as he drank, the other Riders said something more in their native tongue, and the ritual seemed to be finished.

As soon as he had drained the cup, Éomer picked up the water-skin once more and poured a small amount of its liquid into the cup again, and this time he handed it directly to his left, to Aila. She accepted it, surprised, and looked down into the mug. There was only a half a finger's-width of liquid in the cup, surely only enough for one drinker. Her brain worked rapidly. The ritual was over. Éomer was only offering her a drink. She pressed her nose into the center of the cup and inhaled, perhaps too deeply. The sharp scent of alcohol burned at her nostrils. Nodding to Éomer in wordless thanks, she pressed her lips to the cup's brim and quickly threw its contents to the back of her throat. The liquor had a sweet, dewy flavor that was only just apparent beneath the sharp sting of the alcohol on her tongue. And she couldn't have guessed whether it was a type of alcohol more akin to vodka or whiskey or gin, but it was strong. Unexpectedly strong. She grimaced as the alcohol burned her mouth and throat, and she coughed weakly. The Men around her laughed, and she opened her eyes again to smile, apologetically, at them.

"Thank you," she said to Éomer as she handed the cup back to him.

He nodded, a small smile evident even in the darkness and through his short beard, and he said, "_Georne!_"

The Third Marshal collected up the cup and water-skin, handing both of these back to his lieutenant Éothain, and then it was time to eat. As Aila accepted her ration of food, simultaneously thinking how she wished she had _lembas_ and being glad that she had something, anything, to eat that wasn't _lembas_, Éomer cleared his throat beside her.

The other Men were engaged in their own conversations and were paying their leader, and Aila, very little mind. She turned her head to look at the Man from Rohan in time to hear him say, "Aila," in a way as if he were testing her name on his tongue. She didn't say anything immediately in response, and so the Man asked, bluntly: "What interest are you of Saruman's that you should be so kept from him?"

And though Éomer's face was serious and firm, Aila chuckled a little and looked down to her feet. Her right eyebrow raised a little higher over the other. "Caught that, did you?" she said, turning her gaze back to the fire. She tore off a bit of bread and put it into her mouth, slowly and quietly chewing as she thought of her response. After only a moment, she pushed the piece of bread into the corner of her cheek and, softly, spoke around it. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not quite sure," she admitted, and she could see from her peripheral vision that Éomer watched her earnestly. "But it was Gandalf that warned against my going too near to Isengard, and the White Wizard – and I trust Gandalf enough that I am willing to blindly follow that advice, no matter the inconvenience."

"You mean the inconvenience of being separated from your companions," said the Man, and again his deep voice and deeper meaning were blunt.

"Yes," she said quietly in response, still staring into the depths of the fire. She swallowed the bread in her mouth, and fiddled with tearing a new piece, not watching the movement of her hands. "They are my only companions in this whole world."

"Surely that is not the case," replied Éomer swiftly. "Have you no family?"

She turned to look at Éomer then, to meet his dark brown eyes, and she thought for some moments before she replied, simply: "They are my family."

And though it felt proper to say, Aila immediately wondered at the veracity of this statement. Duke, of course, was indeed her family, but she wondered if she could apply such a concept to the others. When she thought of Aragorn, and Legolas, and Gimli, did she think of them as brothers? Aragorn, surely, was too important, too impressive, too regal for her to name her brother; to reduce his character in such a way as to name him as her equal. And Legolas – eternal, strong, noble Legolas – the Elf was beyond the reach of her limited human understanding, his role to her did not fit in the traditional familial roles that her weak mind could construct. But then she thought of Gimli – ah, Gimli! Short, proud, quick-to-anger Gimli, whom she could easily think of as a brother. Had she ever had a brother on the other side of the mirror, Aila imagined (and hoped) that her relationship with him would have been very nearly akin to her easy friendship with Gimli. The Dwarf had, after all, openly threatened Éomer in defense of her. It seemed quite a brotherly thing to do.

Yes, they were, all three of them, her family. Her heart swelled in her chest, a pleasant and painful movement. They were her family, and she had turned her back on them all to go to Edoras.

Éomer was silent for a minute more. "Then you have done me a greater service than first I imagined, in agreeing to come with me to my city. Forgive me, I did not realize that I was pulling you from so tightly-knit a group."

"As I said, they will be in Edoras shortly. Within only a few days, I think," she said, smiling at the Rider. "And you swore yourself to protect me, so I will be safe until I see them again, I trust. I have heard it said that the Men of the Mark do not lie."

"Yes, indeed!" replied Éomer, sudden laughter on his lips. "And you shall be safe, I swear it. Though perhaps, if you are meant to keep away from Saruman and his influences, then I do you more disservice by leading you into Meduseld than by allowing you to roam in the Wild. There are those in service of Théoden-king that serve rather a different master – or, that is how I see it, though I may be quite alone in that belief."

"Wormtongue, do you mean?" And as she said that, Éomer looked at her sharply.

"How come you to know this name?" the Man demanded, his expression, even in the darkness, obviously intent and anxious.

"I could not say," Aila replied warily, "but I know a little of him and his loyalties."

"This is not well," replied Éomer, his voice quiet, and now it was his dark eyes that were turned to the fire. The other Men continued to pay their leader and Aila no mind. "Our state is weakened, and I am afraid that any news of our weakness could inspire an attack against us, if indeed word of Wormtongue's influences have traveled far abroad. Was this the word in the North that you heard?"

"No," said Aila quickly, her mind working rapidly to contrive a way that she could explain her knowledge of Wormtongue. "I cannot say where I first heard his name, or heard tell of his broken loyalties, but I think you can rest with the assurance that no such news is traveling abroad."

Éomer did not seem to readily accept her statement, however, and he was silent for several minutes. The air was darkening around them, and Aila largely lost sight of the Third Marshal's features.

"It is time for sleeping," he said, after a long pause, and his voice was devoid of any latent content or emotion. The other Men in the circle, suddenly, were paying full attention to their leader. He nodded to each in turn, a deep frown on his face, and then he looked again to Aila. "You shall sleep in here," he said, gesturing to the small tent some ten feet behind him. The other Men watched and listened with absorbent eyes and ears. "It is meant for the First of the _éored,_ but I cannot sleep in it and leave a woman to sleep outside, exposed in the open air." And he reached for her pack, taking it from her with his large hands and he moved to place the pack inside the tent. As he did this, the other Men began to busily move about to ready themselves for sleep; one stamped out the fire, the others spread bedrolls or arranged packs or cleared small rocks and debris. Aila, awkward and unsteady and embarrassed, scrambled after Éomer.

She whispered, gasped, mumbled her thank-you's to the Man, again and again, until she was successfully ushered into the tent itself. She crawled through the opening and was refreshingly glad to close its flap against the strange clan of Men by whom she was surrounded. Aila laid back, placing her head against her pack, and she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A dull throb was evident just above the bridge of her nose, between her eyebrows.

The flap flew open again, flung aside by a swift hand, and Éomer was looking at her, his eyebrows drawn close together over narrowed eyes. "We will make Edoras by early afternoon," he said to her, and again his voice was plain and straightforward. "It was originally my plan to present you before the king once we arrived at Meduseld, but I think now that the wiser course would keep you hidden from him – and from the eyes of the snake, Wormtongue. My advice is this: rest well, and be prepared to make haste into the shadows of Edoras as soon as we arrive. I shall aide you as a can, and to you I swear, still, my protection."

"Edoras is a dangerous place for us both," said Aila, and the Man stared at her wordlessly for several moments more. Whether he understood her meaning or not, Aila didn't know, but he quickly withdrew his hand from the tent and was gone.

. . .

Aila had only just closed her eyes to go to sleep, but a hand thumping against the flap of the tent roused her once more. The edges of her eyes felt tight and sore, and there was a thick ache in the back of her eyes which was only relieved by the heavy pressure of an insistent, prolonged blink. She lifted balled hands to rub at her eyes, in an infantile fashion. Another loud thump against the stiff canvas of the tent forced her to crawl out of the opening to see what was the matter.

It was morning. That was the matter. The sun was rising; its wan, bleeding light leaking out of the east and lighting the rolling grass of the Rohirric countryside as a pale sage.

Éomer was standing just outside the tent, and he looked fresh and eager. His dark brown eyes were wide and intelligent, and his wild hair was newly wrangled into the organization of a stout braid. He offered a hand to help Aila to her feet, which she took.

They, in actuality, did not make Edoras until early evening, and the Sun was already hanging low in the west when Aila first caught sight of the proud city.

The city of the Rohirrim was tightly rimmed by a wide, low wall made of roughly cut stone and about ten feet in height. Within this ring, wide hillocks and running slops rose and tumbled, and a multitude of squat wooden houses with golden thatched roofs huddled together, arranged according to no plan or poetry. The land within the walls eventually rose to a imposing rise, peaked at a crescendo of thick grass and exposed gray stone. This miniature mountain looked to be formed by a wind from the east, so that its eastern slope was a gentle and meandering rise to its broad, flat, venerable peak, but that it suddenly dropped on its western side to a sheer, rocky, impressive bare face that fell precipitously to the grassy plains below. And abutted against this bleak drop stood the old and dignified long-hall of Meduseld.

There was a broad wooden gate in the outer wall through which they now rode: Éomer first, and his _éored _followed after him, three Riders abreast. The great doors, painted a deep emerald green, were thrown open for the easy passage of the Riders. And to each side, rising high above the wall and standing as sentries, fluttered two bright pennants that each featured a creamy white horse with a long, regal neck and spindly, stylized legs atop a thick body. The manes of these horses flew back from their necks like tongues of fire, and their eyes were a shining black, their hooves edges in gold. The fields which these horses pranced within were each a rich, dark green or a royal, deep red, and then these colorful fields were framed with bright, rich yellow. Gold tassels danced from their corners.

Once within the walls of Edoras, Aila turned to watch the long snake-like chain of the Riders enter through the narrow way. She saw that, once they were inside the city, Riders began to peel off from the main group, veering this way or that in groups of two or three or ten. Éomer, however, continued westward. Toward Meduseld. Soon, only he and a company of some twenty Riders were on their way up the rising slope of the mount. The breath caught in Aila's throat and she pressed her lips into a thin, severe line. The grand hall looked royal and proud and sinister. She thought of Legolas and his loaded question. Would see she him again? – What would befall her in this city of Men?

And to the immediate left of Théoden's ancient house, there stood a well-kept and finely built stable, into which Éomer rode. The horse, in entering this structure, was moving swifter than Aila might have liked but the horse quickly reduced its speed and, not a moment too soon, came to an expedient halt, and Aila saw that stable-hands were already waiting to groom and tend to the Third Marshal's horse, and the others. Foreign, dark, curious eyes were staring openly at Aila.

Éomer paused for only the breadth of a heartbeat before leaping down from his horse, once the stallion had stopped, and only after he had nodded to one of the stable-boys in particular, beckoning the boy to attend him. And again, as soon as his feet were settled on the ground, Éomer turned to offer his hand to help Aila down. This time, however, he waited patiently, his dark, keen eyes settled expectantly on her. And so she swung her right leg over the body of the horse, and made as if to slide slowly down as one might slip down a slide. Éomer's hands were again on her waist, then, and he supported her as she, infinitely more gracefully than before, alighted to the dirt-strewn floor of the stable.

Éomer's attention was then on the boy. "_Wes hāl_," he said, dipping his chin in greeting to the small boy, who looked to be no more than twelve. The boy returned the Rider's greeting, though his head nodded into a deeper bow than Éomer's had. And then the boy said something to Éomer, in a reverent and shy voice, that caught the Third Marshal's sharp eye and caused a deep frown to form beneath his beard.

But whatever the boy had said, Éomer quickly righted himself and the Man directed all three of them – horse, Aila, and stable-boy – into a nearby box stall. The boy was so short that he was hidden entirely to the other Men once he was within the walls of this stall. And with the stallion serving as a living wall between the three of them and the other Riders and stable-attendants, Éomer began to speak to the boy, in a hushed and rapid voice, and continued to do this for several minutes. Aila watched, her eyes slightly glazed for lack of understanding, and she watched the repetitive movements of Éomer's lips as he formed the sharp words of his native tongue. The boy's head was nodding quickly in acquiescence to whatever it was that Éomer said; it looked as though the poor boy's head might roll right off with the next exaggerated nod.

"Good," said Éomer finally, switching back to the Common Speech for Aila's benefit. She only just realized that he had made the switch and was actually using words that she understood. "Aila," he said, both to address her and also to call her attention to him, as he had noticed her flagging understanding. She lifted her eyebrows at him, but his expression was as yet stern and cautious. He was taking her protection seriously. "Aila," he said again, "you must go now with Eadric," and he gestured to the boy. The boy's attention immediately transitioned so that he was nodding now at Aila. "He will take you to Hilla, my sister's waiting-woman, and she will hide you and look after you, I am sure, once the situation has been explained to her. You and I, Aila – we must not been seen together, as it would raise suspicion which no explanation could quell, but know that I will be keeping careful track of where you are and I will do everything in my power to keep you safe and from Wormtongue's sight."

"But the other Men," said Aila slowly, looking from boy to Man. Eadric, who seemed not to understand the Common Tongue, continued to nod vigorously. "The other Riders ... they have all seen me travel into the city with you. Surely it wouldn't be possible to keep knowledge of my presence here from spreading?"

"The Men of my own _éored _are faithful to me," replied Éomer, with a sense of the definite and an obvious touch of pride in his voice. He seemed very nearly offended that she could make such an inquiry. "I shall circulate word that you are not to be spoken of. We will all endeavor to keep you safe in this city, until your friends can retrieve you."

And with that quick and baldly unsatisfying explanation, Éomer turned to untie Aila's pack from the horse's saddle. When the Man turned around again, he looked at Aila with a critical and dissatisfied eye. "You should remove your weapons, and give them to Eadric to carry. It is uncommon for a woman to walk in Edoras so armed. It is already enough that we cannot help your odd clothing."

Aila's right hand flew then to her shoulder, and a cold, sinking feeling settled in her stomach when her hands gripped the hilt of the sword. Glamdring. She swore quietly to herself. She should have left the sword with Aragorn for its swifter return to Gandalf – now the returned wizard would have no weapon until he arrived in Edoras. Éomer watched her expression change with a curious look on her face, and then his thick hands moved to help her divulge herself of the swords and her strange grey-green cloak. These, and her pack, he handed to the small stable-boy.

"Go now, with Eadric. I will send word to you when I can." Once his hands were free of her things, Éomer took a small step forward toward Aila, and he did something which greatly surprised her. He bent forward, putting his right hand onto her shoulder, and he slowly lowered his head to press his forehead against hers briefly. Again, it was an odd ritual that Aila did not understand, but she allowed him to do it – though she fought against herself to keep from taking a surprised step back.

The boy quickly slung the strap of her pack over his thin shoulder, almost simultaneously wrapping the swords in the folds of her cloak, and then he reached out to grab Aila's hand, leading her out of the stall and out of the stable.

"Thank you," she said to Éomer as she moved to follow the hurrying boy. "Éomer, thank you."

"_Sīe þu hāl_," said the Rohirric Man, and he watched her disappear out of the stable. Thankfully, Eadric led her away from Meduseld, and the pair of them, hand-in-hand, disappeared into the huddled collection of modest wooden houses.

. . .

Hilla was a mature and thickly built woman, with a mass of wavy, course hair the color of straw and a rounded, red nose. She also had a pair of the largest breasts that Aila had ever seen – and which were prominently displayed by the woman's tight-fitting and low-slung bodice. They stood in her doorway for only the span of half a minute as the boy, Eadric, spoke quickly to her in their Rohirric tongue. But Aila only heard the boy get as far as to say Éomer's name before she was interrupting the boy with her buoyant laughter. She wobbled to the side of the door, holding tight to the frame to support herself as she laughed, and she allowed them both access into her house.

The inside was poorly furnished, but meticulously maintained, and there seemed not to be even a speck of dust in the whole place. The floor was scrubbed clean and laid with what appeared to be clay, the thatched roof hung low, and a bright fire was burning in a blackened hearth. When the woman had finished laughing – her chest heaving with the momentous effort of each guffaw – she spoke a few careless and unhurried words to the boy, gesturing to a corner of the small room. Eadric quickly deposited Aila's bag, cloak, and swords in this corner and, without another word or backward glance to Aila, hurried out of the house.

"Well," said the woman in the Common Speech, "another of Éomer's women, eh?" Her speech was thickened by an accent obviously colored by the trilling melodies of her native tongue. The woman laughed again, and shook her head in an amazed sort of way. "I fear for our Éomer – for his taste seems to be flagging," she said as she looked at Aila's dirty, torn, and strange garments. "But perhaps you clean up nicer than I expect – come! You smell, and I do not allow animals into my home."

"Excuse me," said Aila quietly, timidly. She was taken aback by the boisterousness of the woman, confused by the circumstances, and slightly offended by the blatancy of this last insult. "But did Eadric properly explain? I ..."

"Yes, yes," said Hilla, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. "I don't need that fool child to explain to me. This happens more often than you would care to know, girl! That Éomer of yours – the occasion is often that he takes a fancy to a girl, and he brings her here to me, because he can't rightly parade his conquests around the high hall of Meduseld now, can he?" laughed the woman. "No, I already know what you need: you need a place to stay away from the eyes of his uncle the king – lest Théoden rightly force the rascal to marry one of you – and you need a bed, until the time that Éomer calls you to his!" Aila's jaw went slack and she stared at Hilla open-mouthed. "But first," continued Hilla, waving her hands again at Aila, but this time to gesture for the girl to follow her, "you need a bath!"

It was not the bath which Aila had expected. She followed Hilla out of the house and into another nearby longhouse, which had no windows and which leaked steam whenever someone opened its doors. And during the whole walk, she argued with Hilla regarding her status as one of "Éomer's women." Hilla only laughed at her, and flapped her hand dismissively. And if Aila had hoped that a relaxing bath would soothe her anger, she found that a Rohirric bath was not a pleasant experience, and that was for several reasons. Attendants stripped Aila of her clothing, and, once she was properly sweaty from the heat of the room, rubbed dirt and pungent herbs into her skin. But she was not allowed to wash this muck off with water until the attendants had scraped the majority of it from her skin with thin, rough switches. In the end, Aila's skin was bright red and irritated, sweaty and emitting the unpleasant, bitter scent of the herbs. Hilla seemed satisfied. Aila was prepared the strangle the large woman.

She tried, once more, on the way back to Hilla's house to explain to the woman what was going on, but once more she was rebuffed by a disbelieving laugh. Aila's stomach burned with anger and embarrassment, but she quickly found that she was too exhausted to continue to argue. For this night, at least, she would be safe, regardless of the misunderstanding between herself and her hostess. For this night, it was enough that the woman was willing to allow Aila into her home. She could set the record straight regarding Éomer in the morning.

And so, defeated and quiet, Aila sank onto the thick mattress which Hilla had provided her, pulling the rough blanket up to her chin. Exhaustion and relief flooded from the crown of her head right down to her toes. Soon she would be reunited with Legolas and Duke, and Aragorn and Gimli. And Gandalf! If she were less exhausted, her body might have shivered in anticipation and excitement. Gandalf was coming back, she reminded herself. He would be in Edoras in the next day or two. She need only bide her time. And so she fell asleep with this happy thought in her mind.

Morning would bring news of Éomer's arrest and imprisonment.

. . .

[Old English Translations]  
_Georne_ = You're welcome  
_Wes hāl_ = Hello / Well-met  
_Sīe þu hāl_ = Good-bye / See-you-well


	35. The Once and Future King

Author's Note: I inadvertently took something of an extended vacation. It was unconsciously done and I did not enjoy it in the least. However, I am glad to be back! Though I (obviously) struggled in writing this chapter, I also had a lot of fun writing it, once I got my groove back. I wanted to give the Rohirrim a deliciously complex culture, which I hope you will allow to develop over the next few chapters. You should also know how humbled and flattered I am by each and every one of you that reached out to me in my absence. Your words, your encouragement, and your accolades regularly astound me. I'm glad that you are enjoying this little project of mine and I hope that I have not lost some of you by my long absence. If I have, let me extended my deepest apologies. But for those of you who are still willing to put up with me, though I have proved myself now to be of the most untrustworthy sort, I am indebted. I'm glad to be back.

And forgive me, I couldn't resist the Beowulf reference.

Please enjoy!

. . .

Ch. 35 The Once and Future King

Aila woke but did not stir, did not or could not open her eyes against the pale light of the new morning. That light, and the cool air of the morning, wafted in through open windows. The house was quiet, stilled, sublimely peaceful; and Aila had no desire to disturb it. She could smell the smoke of a newly built fire, a thick and heady scent, and also feel its warmth in steady waves against her face. Its warmth and its crackling song blended with the slow cadence of the morning's rhythm. Her heartbeat matched that rhythm, slow and purposeful, plush and satisfied. Each breath was singularly gratifying and fulfilling. And only her face was exposed to the alternated warmth of the fire and coolness of the morning draft; the rest of her was hidden beneath a mass of rough blankets, laying oh-so-comfortably atop the mattress on the floor of Hilla's house. It was a modest thing, this mattress, tucked away in the corner of the main room of her house – really, it was only a canvas bag stuffed with dried grasses; but it was miraculous, it was heaven. It was softer and cleaner and more comfortable than any bed that Aila had had for weeks. Her aching muscles felt to be melted right into the fabric of the bed itself. As such, she had no inclination to leave this pleasant haven any sooner than she absolutely must. Of course, her peace could never last.

It was while Aila was relishing in the scent of the wood-fire – an intriguing mix of smokiness and a sharpness like fresh pine and the fruity undertones of apples – with her eyes tightly closed that Hilla burst back into the house, a flurry of circular motion and thrumming noise. The woman threw the door open, brushing the frame with her wide hips, and from her lips came a low humming, a busy song of motion and life and things-not-yet-done. A strong, cool breeze followed the woman through the door, such that Aila was immediately engulfed in cold air and broad sound. Her eyes flew open in surprise at the sudden commotion that had broken her peace.

"Up!" cried the Rohirric woman, upon spying Aila still in the bed, and her voice was more exasperation and disbelief than command. She busily transferred some bundle of cloth from her arms to the scrubbed table-top. "Up, awake! The day is wasting!" And even though it looked to Aila as though the sun had only just risen, she began dutifully, if slowly, to peel away the layers of blankets from her frame and stand up; groggy, grudging, and blinking. "Come now. Eat up, have some breakfast! And get dressed," said Hilla, pushing the pile of fabric towards Aila as the latter took a seat at the table. "I have been to see my oldest sister-daughter and borrowed this dress for you. I think that it will fit." Her voice trailed then, perhaps speaking more to herself than to Aila, but Aila nodded in acknowledgement regardless. The large woman bustled out of the room right then, and without further word, to another part of the house. Once the other woman had quit the room, Aila turned her attention to the place of food that was waiting on the table in front of her. Her appetite was then quickly recalled once the food touched her lips, and she ate hastily.

Hilla's voice called to her distantly even before the woman had re-entered the main room of the house. "You'll be coming with me today, child," she said, actually re-entering the room somewhere in the middle of her sentence. Her words held the unthinking rhythm of her previously hummed song. "If you're staying with me, then I'll put you to work – Éomer's, or not."

And it was this that reminded Aila, unpleasantly and sharply, of her frustration of the night before. She swiftly swallowed the food in her mouth to clear her throat, and the poorly-chewed bread scratched her throat on the way down, leaving an uncomfortable trail of pain. She coughed roughly, struggling to speak through her coughs as she quickly sputtered: "I think you've misunderstood." The other woman paused, and watched Aila with concern as the younger woman took a hasty drink, spilling a bit out of the corners of her mouth, before continuing. "I don't know where you got the idea, but I'm not here to be 'one of Éomer's women' as you say. You see, I'm here ..."

But she never had the chance to finish her sentence as Hilla keenly interrupted, her lips pulled tight. "Hush now, be quiet," she commanded, turning an uneasy glance to the doorway and the nearby windows. "Never mind that." Aila was surprised to hear that her voice was carving-knife sharp, and her demeanor had shifted dramatically from the pleasant to the stern. And so, Aila watched, wide-eyed, as the other woman leaned forward over the table to hold Aila's eyes in her own narrowed, intent gaze. Her large breasts were pressed against the table-top. But even within an instant, Aila realized that Hilla was not threatening her, but rather had the firm expression of a mother scolding her child. One of Hilla's eyebrows was raised over the other. "You heard that I have been to see my sister-daughter this morning?" the woman asked, and Aila nodded silently in response. "She has given me word that our Lord Éomer was arrested and imprisoned late last night in the hall Meduseld." Her dark eyes glittered in warning, taking a small pause to allow the words to sink in to Aila's brain. But the words were resistant: her mind was frozen and dull as she listened to the woman continue. "I do not know for what reason or purpose you were brought to this city, but these are evil times and hard days. Better that you be a silly girl brought for the whim of an ungentlemanly lord than let it be known your true purpose; I need not know it for myself – but there are few so brainless that cannot comprehend something of the meaning of a woman who comes to our city, in these dark days, armed with two bright swords." She nodded to Glamdring and Núadin, which were both still wrapped up in Aila's cloak by the side of the modest bed where Aila had slept. "Better to leave those here, let them stay where they are. Waiting-woman and mistresses do not go so armed within the city-walls."

"Éomer has been arrested?" Aila said weakly, letting everything else which Hilla had said fall from her thoughts. How could she have forgotten that little bit of information that was so greatly pertinent to her situation? Her position in Edoras was now more dangerous by the second.

"Yes, dear," Hilla replied kindly, slipping back into her pleasant manner. She mistakenly assumed that Aila's lame response was, in fact, an effort to play along with her requisite role as unimportant maid and mistress of the Third Marshal.

But Aila was not merely playing dumb. Her thoughts were lost in a web of worry. She thought of Éomer, locked somewhere within the halls of Meduseld, unable to offer her any assistance or protection. Would his influence over the members of his own _éored_ hold true? – Would its members hold faithful to her secret or would one of those Riders betray her? And if she were to be exposed to Wormtongue ... would he know of her? Would his master Saruman, who knew of her power and had seen her face, have warned the pitiable creature of her existence and of her power? And what might her punishment be for this perceived crime? Imprisonment? – Or death? Her mind was a swirl, and Aila was left only to hope that she remain hidden.

Better not to think on it, she decided. And so she quickly finished her small breakfast, spilling a bit more of her drink on her chin as she rushed, and gathered the bundled cloth on the table in front of her to get dressed. It was easy to convince herself that she would feel much better about blending into the daily life in Edoras once she was in the proper attire. After all, such effort had worked, albeit to an extent, in both Lothlórien and Rivendell. Such a measure, Aila reasoned, should work even better here in Edoras than in any of the places she had been previously, merely for the fact that Aila herself would fit in better in this city. She was, after all, of Mankind, and had only previously been surrounded by Elves. Any would stand out amongst Elves, regardless of garb. But here, here in Edoras, she told herself, she would be no more interesting than any other young maid in the city.

And a thought – beautiful and simple and clean – struck her: in Edoras, she was not Aearvenel. Not the Light Bearer. The Rohirrim had no exultant expectation of her, did not worship her, did not write her into song and legend. In Edoras, she was of no interest at all.

The thought was at once thrilling and exciting, and so Aila eagerly pulled on the dress.

But, once on, the cut of the dress smashed to pieces the semi-contented feeling of safety and satisfaction that Aila had tricked herself into feeling. There was nothing at all about the dress that was made to avoid standing out. It was a deep, rich green and made of an unremarkable fabric, that was plain enough, and it had nice long sleeves and a sweeping skirt that reached all the way to the floor. But the neckline plunged, akin to the revealing cut of Hilla's dress. And the dress' only accessory was a wide belt, perhaps intended for the style of a corset, that – as far as Aila could tell – was meant to run underneath her breasts and hug her rib-cage, stopping just at her waist. This belt she tied on as tightly as she felt comfortable and she craned her neck to look down at her own body and assess the look of the dress, as there was no mirror. The curve of her hips jutted out at an aggressive angle from the restriction of the belt and, she thought, more of her breasts were on display than she had ever previously allowed. The whole costume was hideously embarrassing to her.

And so she left the small room where she had gotten dressed to gain assurance from Hilla that there was some mistake, some oversight that Hilla had forgotten to retrieve a crucial piece of the ensemble. And when the woman's laughter greeted the sight of Aila, the younger woman breathed a momentary, ill-conceived sigh of relief. But instead of producing some shawl to cover her shoulders and chest, Hilla instead drew the belt around Aila's waist tighter still, pulling it in rough, jerking motion and setting it even higher beneath her breasts. With a cluck of satisfaction, Hilla took a step back to look at Aila once more.

The older woman smiled. "Here you are, child, and looking quite fine indeed. Perhaps Éomer's taste has not fallen so far as my first estimation of it." Aila only returned her sideways compliment with a deeper frown and a nervous gaze. Hilla ignored this expression, and waved an impatient hand for Aila to follow after her out of the house.

Once out in the bright sunlight of Edoras, Aila kept her eyes protectively closed, shielding them not only from the sun's insistent light but also herself from the notice of any who might be around – as if by the mere act of averting her gaze, she could discourage any other to notice her, in turn. But even with the feigned invisibility of her unseeing gaze, Aila felt naked and exposed, a tall and stark redwood in the midst of the Sahara. But her character and her curiosity could not be long abated by her embarrassment and fear; and so, in spite of every expected censure or punishment, Aila's gaze began to swiftly dart upward from the ground to the houses and people which surrounded her. Her courage rose with each stolen glance that showed no other to pay any great attention to her. She noticed, as she and Hilla climbed the steady rise to Meduseld, that, contrary to her fear, she was not garnering any attention at all. The people of that Rohirric city were busily going about their mornings, paying no mind at all to the middle-aged waiting-woman and her charge. And so with each step, each new furtive glance, Aila began to disappear into the very blades of the grass she was walking upon.

_Not Sælrieth_, she reminded herself, with a pleasurable shiver of excitement.

She stood a little straighter, turned her eyes outward more frequently, letting the sunlight bathe on her skin and her face, soaked into the color of her eyes. With each step she gained confidence in her altogether invisible stride. With such little encouragement, Aila began to engage in her favorite activity: observation.

The morning was warmer than it had any right to be for so early in the season, and so the people of Edoras were out and about, seeing to their jobs and duties with light steps and airy countenances. The cobbler sat in front of his shop, tapping away at the heel of a leather boot, perhaps meant for one of the Riders; an intermixed group of young men and women sat weaving and gossiping in the corner of a broad square; children drew water from a nearby well; old women swept the small porches fronting their houses. Some called out morning greetings to Hilla – she seemed an easy favorite among the residents of that area – and she nodded and smiled and returned their greetings with accustomed affability. These individuals nodded also to Aila, smiling broadly with cracked lips and yellowed teeth, bowing slightly, or calling out some variation of good cheer. Aila only gave a small smile in return, nodding her head in acknowledgement, but thought it best not to expose herself as a non-speaker of that Rohirric tongue.

And though the scene was altogether one of pleasantness and joy, Aila just missed the feeling of uncertainty that underlay the whole character of the city. The cobbler sat, indeed, working at his wars, but his eyes were turned outward with mistrust, and he relished the feeling of the sun on his skin, not knowing when he might enjoy his last ray. The gossipers in the square gossiped mainly on the plain change in their king, and the hushed word of advancing Orcs on their borders. The children did not romp and play, but were uncharacteristically sedate. The old women watched it all with hooded eyes. But Aila, whose eyes were so joyfully engaged in observing the whole of the scene, did not comprehend this.

Soon Aila and her middle-aged guide outstripped the huddle of modest houses and were at once upon a more open lane, leading up to the noble long-hall. The bright green of the grass overwhelmed and excited Aila's eyes, and she thought with dull memories of the muted sage which had been the color of the grass during her tireless chase to the north. Surely, the others were reunited with Gandalf at this time? Perhaps they were already on their way to Edoras. She would not have long to wait. It was easy to feel quite at ease, especially amidst the friendliness and bright colors and vivacity that she perceived in the Rohirric morning. She should not have let her apprehension slip away so readily.

As the long-hall of Meduseld loomed closer, Aila saw to their left that there was spread a large training ground, which was already heavily occupied in the still-crisp morning air. A row of targets stood proud and at-the-ready, painted in concentric circles of black and gold, for the discretion of the archers' practice. A line of grass-stuffed scarecrows stood similarly, though some way off from the archery targets, for the practice of swordsmen. These latter were presently engaged, and the ring of metal and the agitated sounds of striving men reached Aila's ears.

But what astonished her most – what she might not have expected of the people of Rohan – was that not some small number of women also accompanied the swordsmen at their practice. Indeed, some of the women, dressed finely in leather armor and bright golden tunics, were _directing_ the efforts of the men as they trained. She could not help herself but to remark of that astonishment to Hilla.

The Rohirric woman tsked disapprovingly, and shook her head for a moment before saying, "And so then you must come from Gondor, where I understand they treat their women like furniture. Not so for the mighty maidens of Eorl! It might surprise your antiquated judgment to know that women may be as strong – or stronger – than the men of battle, but here perhaps you see its truth. In Rohan, there is strong tradition of warrior-women."

Aila paused in her walk. She was immediately offended and opened her mouth to defend herself, considering herself something of a modern, and empowered, feminist. Though, in learning something of the culture of Rohan, she might have held her tongue, if not for remembering one pertinent bit of information. "But my swords!" she exclaimed. "You alternatively accuse me of being some dangerous warrior and some feminine armchair, and yet you said that women do not go armed within the walls of Edoras. Was it wrong of me to assume you meant that women did not go armed at all?"

Hilla paused also, turning to look at Aila sharply, and again a countenance of firm reproof appeared on her features. "You are not a shield-maiden of Rohan," the woman said sternly. "_You_ do not go armed within the city-walls, or otherwise a woman of Rohan would be well within her rights to challenge you. Is it not your desire to remain undiscovered?"

"Yes," replied Aila, meekly. "Right." And she remained silent, a jumble of emotions, as Hilla turned to continue the hike to the peak of Edoras' foremost hill, atop which stood Meduseld. Aila was embarrassed by the easy affront by Hilla, and offended by the very same, and insatiably curious regarding the culture and customs of the Rohirrim, and had some intermixing of pride and fondness towards to the shield-maidens of Rohan. She had certainly not expected such gender-equality within the Rohirric people – but then, what could she expect of the people who had produced head-strong and battle-worthy Éowyn? And to this, her nervousness trumped all – as she was going that very minute to wait on the sister of the Third Marshal. She put a spread hand to her chest to shield her exposed breasts as she quickly resumed her step and hurried forward to follow after Hilla.

Finally, they gained the foremost steps of the hall of Edoras, and, with Hilla in lead, Aila was brought along broad and beautiful passages to a lower level where she was informed of their purpose in going there by the welcoming smells of baking bread and other cooking scents. She continued to follow Hilla, feeling comfortably safe within the woman's shadow, and she returned to her keen observation of her surroundings as they went, presumably, to fetch Éowyn's breakfast.

The exterior of the hall was a plainly noble building, a wide wooden frame set with gray stone walls and the whole structure had an impenetrable and imposing majesty. But inside, the warmth and brightness of the place was unmistakable. The walls were painted fervently with the frescoes of great deeds and warriors long passed, and the structure was supported by wide, dark-wooden columns that were similarly carved with thick and imposing patterns that invited Aila's fingertips to touch and explore their intricacies. Thick tapestries hung over stone walls where the frescoes failed, and though some of these were woven with some similarly great stories, still others were plain and bold in their color and pattern. The symbol of the house – that white prancing horse – was repeated in short intervals wherever Aila looked.

There was no drama at all in retrieving Éowyn's breakfast from the kitchens; the chefs accepted that Hilla had a new assistant as readily and as frequently as they failed to notice Aila at all. Perhaps Hilla had been right in supposing that the frequency of maidens' stay at her house, with regards to Éomer's attentions, were quite beyond Aila's interest. She very nearly laughed to think of it, and wondered how many girls similar to herself in (purported) position these chefs had occasion to ignore. She easily took the tray that she was given, holding it steady, and followed Hilla back out of the kitchens.

And Hilla led her once more through the maze of hallways, Aila's eyes as constantly averted to the decoration and grandeur of the space that she could afford without spilling from the tray, until they finally reached a nondescript wooden door. Throwing this open, with a waking-song in her native tongue ready on her lips, Hilla entered the room and Aila followed quickly on her heels. But the woman did not complete even the first rhyming couplet of her song before the room was once more ensconced in silenced. The bedclothes, Aila could see from around Hilla's broad frame, were disturbed and the bed was obviously empty.

"My lady does not rise so early," said Hilla softly, and her voice was fully of worry and mistrust. Aila walked quickly into the room to deposit her burden onto a nearby table. And for a few moments, the two of them searched the room for some indication of Éowyn's whereabouts. But, they needn't search for long.

A woman's voice, earnest and concerned, called from the hallway: "Hilla?" The indicated woman turned to the doorway, relief coloring the corners of her eyes. Perhaps, Aila thought generously, Éowyn had only just heard of her brother's arrest and was coming to Hilla for comfort. But Hilla's expression of relief soon faded, as the unnamed woman in the hall continued, her voice full of stress, "Hilla, hwær is héo?"

Hilla had only the breadth of a moment to turn to Aila, her eyes full of surprise and sorrow, and she said only, "Child!" And then the room was suddenly full with soldiers, who came with more than merely the news of Éomer's arrest.

They came, five men in all, armed and armored, and they came to Aila with shackles of her own.

. . .

"Yes," said Éothain, who stood amidst the soldiers that shortly surrounded Aila. "That is her." She recognized him as easily as he had recognized her. And his presence stank of betrayal. Aila was quickly shackled and led from the room, shoved before two of the soldiers at the front of the small group as they led her away. Aila could faintly hear Hilla's protests, but they were quickly born away by the swiftness that the group moved through the hallways. She had precious little chance to catch a glimpse of any of her captors, and knew only of Éothain's presence for sure. And it was only with an articulate hatred that she thought of the Man, and she willed that this hatred overwhelm the other feelings of abject terror that were bubbling up in her stomach.

She was expressly brought into the main hall of the place, a wide and expansive chamber that immediately bespoke its purpose as throne hall of Théoden-king.

Aila's eyes took a hurried sweep of the hall while the soldiers forced her onto her knees in its center. The room was large and its light somewhat vivid and airy for the feeling of threatening danger that Aila sensed in it. It was lined on each of its flanks with long, thin tables, complemented with arranged benches, that marked the hall for regular feasting. Fluttering banners hung majestically on the walls, shouting at her in bright colors of crimson and emerald, trimmed in gold, boasting the image of the white, proud horse of the Rohirrim. Thick columns rose up, twined in thick relief of twisting branches and fluttering leaves. The hall had a scent of the ancient, its stone floors worn and very nearly soft on her knees, and it gave her over to thinking of the models of Viking halls she might have seen in museums. She half-expected to see Grendel's arm decorating the wall, and to see Hrothgar presiding over its expanse rather than Théoden. Hrothgar might have welcomed her.

But it was, indeed, Théoden that she saw sitting on the golden throne. He struck a terrifying sight – not for the imposition of his might, or the threat of his intense gaze, but for the unsightliness and fragility of his seat thereupon. His long hair was wizened, white, and dirty, clinging around the corners of his red mouth and the long, errant hairs of his overgrown eyebrows. His eyes, which Aila guessed to be once a dark brown like those of his nephew, were now a milky, pale gray that only just hinted at their former color. He was hunched over, with barely the strength to keep himself from tumbling off of the throne, and he was clothed in a white robe, but which was stained yellow and brown and black at odd intervals, and gave much to his general appearance of inattentiveness and, more generally, maltreatment.

And on a low seat beside the king, sat Gríma Wormtongue, a pale and oily figure clothed in black that likewise hunched beside his king, though his posture was one of close confidence than insipid lack of strength.

From the small group which led Aila into the hall broke free two individuals. The first, a tall woman, walked forward to the king and took her position to his left, turning around to face Aila and placing her hand softly on her uncle's left shoulder. This was Éowyn, and Aila wasted a few moments in observing her. She was tall, like her brother, and not slightly built. Her long, blonde hair was thick and course, but better kept that her brother's, and fell down her shoulders to her waist in dense waves. A thin silver circlet sat on her brow. She was too far away for Aila to see the color of her eyes, but her expression was stern and unyielding. The king's niece held herself as Aila might have expected her to – a foremost shield-maiden of Rohan.

The other was Éothain, who retreated from the soldiers to stand to the side of the hall, somewhere halfway between Aila and the king himself. His duty, as her main accuser, appeared finished.

Her gaze then settled once more on the vacant king and his black steward. Théoden returned her gaze with disinterest and boredom, and his lips moved, barely perceptible, in some speech to Gríma that was too low for Aila to hear. After a heartbeat, the Wormtongue spoke. "What business have you here in our city?" the steward demanded, his pale gray lips forming the words with a disgusting pronouncement. Théoden nodded, slowly, his acceptance of this speech.

Aila's gaze was trapped by Wormtongue's hideous face for a few moments, and she noted his long, black greasy hair and the purple circles beneath his eyes. His entire complexion was an unnatural gray. And then, snapped from her disgust, her mind moved rapidly to reply to his question. "No business," she replied quickly, trying to keep her voice steady and strong. She tried to thicken it with some impugned honesty. "I have only just fled to this city for shelter and aid. Orcs raided the village where I was staying on the eastern border of this land. I was the only one to survive the sword and flame. I came to bring this news, and seek safety." Whispers, fervent and shocked, followed this news, and it took several sharp glances from Wormtongue and an earnest hushing from various guards about the place to quiet the risen voices once more.

"You are not _eorlinga_," said Wormtongue accusatorily.

"No," Aila replied, thinking on Hilla's earlier words. "I fled first from my homeland of Gondor, evil following at my heels from the south and that blackest land in the east. I sought refuge amidst the strength of Rohan." Perhaps flattery would get her somewhere. And it did; she could feel the tight grip of the soldier to her right loosen a little on her shoulder, followed closely by his companion gripping her left shoulder. Their postures relaxed a little, and they glanced down at her with pity.

Éothain listened to her with a darkening, hateful expression (he at least knew that she had been brought out of the north), and Éowyn's features were as stern and unmoving as ever. Théoden looked purely unaffected. But there was murmur among the others gathered that spoke wonder at the attacks in the east, and that a refugee should be so roughly presented before the king. Heated arguments were springing up around the room; some took Aila's side in pity, while their opposition represented the paranoia of a city under attack from both Sauron and Saruman. Who, after all, could they trust – even in seemingly innocent young maidens?

"You surely cannot believe such nonsense and lies," said Éothain, clearly unable to hold his tongue. "She was brought herself into this city under the personal guard of the traitor Éomer. Her purpose in this city must be black, indeed." Aila looked to Éothain then, and wondered that he did not flatly speak the truth of her encounter with his _éored_ and the reason Éomer brought her to Edoras. But even as she wondered this, she realized that Éothain could not speak such truth, for it would be to also admit that he himself had allowed three, much more dangerous, strangers to wander freely through the lands of Rohan. Éothain kept his silence in this regard. It was a small victory.

"And surely," said Éowyn to Éothain's outburst, "all those with even the slightest association with my brother must also be fully allied to his guilt?" She said this, looking keenly at Éothain with steady reproof in her eyes. Aila did not understand the underlain threat which accompanied her words, but she heard it nonetheless. Éothain was silent once more.

Wormtongue looked to Éowyn with watery eyes, his pale gray lips turned down in a falsely sympathetic frown. "You cannot help your bloodline, my Lady," said the Wormtongue, "and neither in this fashion may Éothain, though the traitor's betrayal brings shame on us all. But this stranger," he said, casting his words with thick venom towards Aila, "can have no exception to association with that evil Man of which we speak. If he has indeed brought her into our city, as I believe Éothain speaks true – being, after all, the Second of his _éored_ – then she can have nothing but mischief for the proud sons of Eorl. What plans of destruction and death might she harbor for our poor city?"

Éowyn's frown deepened. She addressed the king, and the king alone: "Such twisted words." The king murmured softly in response to her, and she continued. "We have here only proof that she is a desperate young woman, brought in from the wilds by our strongest _éored_ for safety and shelter. What danger is she, that has no weapon? That has no obvious strength to her? What is her means of betrayal, except to eat her share of bread and drink of our ale? – though perhaps this last is the black evil that Éothain might fear."

They continued to argue Aila's threat and crime, Éothain speaking boldly against her and Éowyn offering insult and reproof to his every advance. Wormtongue resumed his seat beside his king and spoke to the sovereign in hushed conversation. His black eyes slid often to Aila, watching her warily, and his frown and exaggerated whispers heightened the sharpness of his ugly face.

Aila could see, quite clearly, that her only hope might be to twist the king's own thoughts to pronouncing her free to go. His mind, after all, was already so weak and tame that it might prove even within her unpracticed power. So, throwing caution to the wind, Aila closed her eyes and sought for Théoden's mind while the conversation continued around her. The king's mind was difficult to find with the direction of so many other minds nearby, but she eventually focused on the one she found most dampened and dulled by some outside influence. With an energy bursting from her chest, she pushed against this mind and entered the halls of Théoden-king's bleary mind.

The place she found herself was foggy and moist, and had the smell of an old, rotting library – once grand and full of the knowledge of things, but left to the damp and decay of too many inattentive years. There was a thick haze wafting through the hallways of the king's mind, and her visibility was reduced to only a few feet in front of her. She groped forward, her thoughts working rapidly to conceive what might need to be done, when a sudden, familiar voice arrested her. Her heart sank in an instant into the pit of her stomach, slipping down her legs and out of the toes of her shoes to melt onto the floor.

Saruman said: "Aila. So obliging of you to come to me. In Edoras, I see?"

And an incredible power hit her squarely in the chest, and she was thrown back, tossed haphazardly out of Théoden's mind and back into her own body on the floor of the grand chamber. Her body shuddered and she nearly buckled to the floor were the soldiers not able to hold her upright, their surprised touches more gentle than they might have been. The shackles clanked as she threw her hands forward to brace the fall that wouldn't come.

The room went dark for the span of a heartbeat as Aila lost consciousness for a moment, due to the violence with which she had been thrust back into her body, and she could only barely bring her attention to the king's steward in the midst of Wormtongue's outburst. His response to her efforts was quite telling, and his mottled finger was pointing at her in accusation. "Witch!" came his repeated cry, the corners of his mouth frothing in his zealotry. "Deceiver! Tool of the Enemy! You came into this city, brought by the very traitor Éomer, with the aim to twist our poor, noble king's mind – when he is already so weighted by trouble and hardship," he said, gesturing with feigned displeasure and sadness at the hunched, puppet king.

Théoden's eyes were once more locked on Aila's, but there was something more of interest and surprise behind the cloudiness of his pale eyes. And some manner of desperation. Had the true king felt Aila's touch in his mind? The interest in his gaze quickly faded again to vacancy.

And as Gríma railed on against her, she realized that his words were clearly indicative that Saruman had warned the steward of her. He could recognize easily her efforts to gain access to the king's mind, and could see that Saruman had thrown her violently back out. To this, Aila could barely react. Her body was exhausted and her muscles felt muddled. She lifted her eyes drowsily to Éowyn, seeing that the woman watched her with widened, unsure eyes, though the king's niece did spare the occasional hateful glance toward Wormtongue as the steward continued his rant. Éothain spat at the ground in Aila's direction.

"There can only be one punishment for one who brings such betrayal and destruction into the heart of the mighty Rohirrim. An attack against the king, and in his own hall!, has only one outcome: and that is death." He nodded, his greasy black hair bobbing against the curl of his shoulders in his earnestness, to one of the guards standing beside Aila. The Man, looking uncomfortably at Gríma, reluctantly drew his sword. Aila closed her eyes.

"Do you truly mean," came Éowyn's voice from beside her uncle, bringing Aila's eyes open once more, "to murder an unarmed woman with no defense of herself, and her only crime your accusation of some treason that none can perceive but you? I saw not a witch of any power, but the weakness of a girl who passed out with the shock of such a trial."

The guard beside Aila gratefully lowered his sword.

Éowyn fell to one knee beside the king, placing her hands on his forearm and squeezing her fingers gently, and Théoden turned his head slowly to stare at her blankly. She entreated him: "These are dark days, indeed, my lord, but has the honor of Rohan fallen so far that we murder even the innocent, so mistakenly assured that all are against us? Have we no longer any strength to resist even our darkest impulses?" And to this last, the king made a strange grunting sound, and he shook his head as though to shake some fog from his ears, his white hair flying about him in an odd, repellant cloud.

The king murmured.

Wormtongue turned back from where he had been standing some several feet in front of the king, the better position to demand Aila's death, and his expression was earnest. "My lord ..."

The king murmured again.

"Imprison her," commanded Éowyn swiftly, returning to her feet, speaking to the guards to remove Aila from the trial before the king's mind could be perverted once more. "Take her into the dungeons and keep her there, pending trial of any treason. Her death may be assured, in the end, but not without proper circumstance." Éothain argued eagerly, but he was swiftly rebuked by the king's niece as neatly and as efficiently as had been done before, and he turned on his heel to storm from the hall. Aila was pulled to her feet by the soldiers. She looked back to Éowyn, trying to express a wordless thanks to the woman as she was led away, and Aila saw that the Rohirric woman gave a small, almost imperceptible, nod in her direction.

. . .

Aila was led now into the lowest floor of the long-hall Meduseld, some basement level at the very foundation of the structure that, naturally, housed the prison for the city. It was remarkably empty, Aila thought, considering the paranoia of the city. But when Aila thought of the probable reason for the fact that there may not be many prisoners – but perhaps many graves – she pressed her lips tightly together in anxiety.

And in the foremost cell, at the front of the prison's matrix, was Éomer. Upon seeing her, he rushed to the front of his enclosure and wrapped his long, thick fingers around the iron bars. "Aila!" he cried, his voice full of misery. He, obviously, was unhappy that he had so failed in his trust to her. He had not thought, at least not yet, that her presence in the jail spoke to some betrayal of his Men. And whether it was due to his recognition of her, or the laziness of the guards, she was unceremoniously thrust into the same prison cell as the Third Marshal. The metal clanged as the door of the cell slammed shut, and the guards retreated to their nearby post.

Aila was too overwhelmed, too full of her own thoughts, to speak to Éomer and so she ignored him. He watched her with a pained expression as she sat down against a wall of the small cell. She pulled her knees up against her chest, wrapping her arms around them in a comforting manner, and strove to fight off tears as she let her mind wander through the heady thoughts that drowned her. The circumstances and consequences of her capture were now impossible to shield from her mind, as she might have done only a few hours ago. What would now be her fate? Wormtongue evidently knew of her, and his true master, Saruman, wanted her dead – a desire he now had the means of satisfying. Aila could hardly even comprehend the danger that she was in, trapped in the middle of a mistrustful city, under the thumb of a corrupt steward and an empty king controlled by a dark wizard, and trapped in a jail cell to await the whim of any or all of her present enemies. And her only means of protection was jailed immediately beside her.

Her only real hope, she thought, was in rescue. And so she thought desperately of her companions – how quickly would they come now to Edoras? She was sure that they only spent a few days abroad until they came to the city of the Rohirrim, but she could no longer trust to her memory as it had so recently proved glaringly faulty – she had, after all, forgotten of Éomer's own imprisonment. And that Man sat, as equally caged as herself, only feet from her, looking altogether downtrodden and sour. And so she wondered: would they come in time to save her, before Saruman succeeded in being able to put her to death? Was her story so well-written or clever as to elicit a knick-of-time rescue by the heroes of the story? And Gandalf and Duke – would she survive to see them again? Duke had only just returned into her life, and her reunion with Gandalf was tantalizingly close, like a dim flavor on the tip of her tongue.

And she thought lastly of Legolas. If she were to be put to death, how angry would he be that she had given her promise so lightly, and broken it?

It was hard to tell how quickly time was passing, if at all, in the lightlessness of the dungeon. There were no windows that allowed any sunlight, and Aila imagined that they were far underground. She remained huddled on the cold, dirty stone floor, her chin resting on her knee and her arms wrapped around her shins for a long time. Aila had no way of knowing how much time had passed before Éomer addressed her.

"I am sorry," he said quietly, with an uncertainty in his tone that bespoke of his having wanted to say something earlier. "I have failed in my promise to protect you – I could not have guessed that Wormtongue's hold on my uncle the king would have grown this strong in my absence. Still," he said softly, "it should have been enough that you were sent with my sister's waiting-woman. I cannot fathom how you were found out."

Aila, in a sour mood, could not stand his tone of self-pitying anguish. She frowned at the Third Marshal. "It was Éothain," she said plainly. "It was Éothain that identified me, that betrayed my location. That betrayed you."

"Éothain?" was Éomer's incredulous reply. "No, it cannot be. You are mistaken, it cannot be. He is my father-sister-son. He is loyal to me."

"And you would believe your foolish and unfounded trust in him over me, who is telling you plainly that he is the one who found me out?" Aila shouted, her patience fully waned. She should not have reacted so strongly, she knew, but the pressures weighing against her were crushing her heart. Though the shouting should have helped, it did not. "Do you not believe me when I say that he is the one who led five guards to Éowyn's chambers to arrest me, when I tell you that it was he who rallied strongly for Wormtongue to have me promptly beheaded?" She paused, her voice growing softer. "When I tell you that he only spoke your name if it was preceded by the epithet of traitor?"

One of the guards had approached their cell, and he thrust his staff against the iron bars so that they protested loudly against his strike. The man shouted something in Rohirric at Aila, and turned around, satisfied, to return to his place when she made no reply.

"Does he want me to be quiet?" she asked Éomer, once the guard had retreated.

Éomer looked at her darkly. "He says that you should not shout at me so. I am newly the Second Marshal of Rohan. Even imprisoned, apparently I may account for some measure of respect."

"Second? ..." said Aila, confusion in her voice until her memory caught up with her. And she asked, haltingly, "The king's son?"

"Yes," said Éomer. "I received news immediately before my imprisonment as a traitor that my mother-brother-son is dead: Théodred, Second Marshal of Rohan. And I ... I take his place."

"Éomer," she said, "I'm sorry." Neither said anything for a long time afterward.

Aila watched Éomer for a time, noting the dour expression on his face and the resigned way he slouched against the wall, his long legs stretched in front of him. His wild hair was wrought free from its braid and no effort had been made to wrangle it once more. His thick stubble was growing at a rapid pace, forming an early beard on his chin and cheek, and she could see from the repetitive movement of his lips that he chewed the inside of his lower lip as he sat. It was a nervous habit he shared, then, with Aila herself, and she found herself mirroring this habit as she watched him. He was lost in some dark thought, she could see, and she wondered at the position he was currently in. He was heir to the throne of a people that might not survive Saruman's influence. Successor of his dead cousin; heir of a king who did not recognize kin, who imprisoned him for treason according to the whim of Wormtongue.

It might have been hours. The guards changed. And Aila softened toward Éomer with each passing breath. He was a lone force struggling against the ocean waves which continuously worked to drown him. And he struck a depressed and broken figure, a handsome and tall and proud Man reduced to slouching on the dirty floor of a prison – and within his own city, locked away by his own uncle.

She shivered, goose-bumps raising on her arms as she tried to pull her knees tighter against her. The position, having been held for so long, was painful and awkward, but the dungeon was cold and only by huddling tightly together was Aila able to maintain any fraction of her own body heat.

"Are you cold?" asked Éomer, noticing her involuntary shiver and the evidence in her posture. She only nodded. "I shall get you a blanket," he said softly, his face turning to an expression of determination. Did he still feel some obligation of protecting her, even in this slightest manner?

Éomer stood then, bringing himself to his full height and walked to the front of the cell, fronting the iron bars and addressing the guards in their native tongue. The laughing response that was returned to him was obvious to Aila, though she did not understand fully the content of the speech: they were in prison. The guards gave no thought to their comfort. Éomer frowned, his face darkening, and he turned away from the bars and took one step back into the cell. And then, with another flash of determination and anger on his face, he turned again to the guards and stepped forward to wrap his long fingers around the iron bars. The words that rang from his lips were loud, angry, and true.

"And when was it," he asked, "this blackest of days, that the noble Men of Rohan began to turn their backs on young maidens who sought them out for aid? And then, not giving that help where it was warranted, but rather accusing them of treason? Defaming and imprisoning them?" He lifted a hand from its tight grip on the bars, reeling back and slamming his flat palm against the iron, resulting in a loud, furious bang. Aila involuntarily jumped back a little in surprise. She could see in profile that his face was red, shining against the paleness of his hair and beard. "I am only ashamed that I live to see such disgrace, a black mark that my people can only be accused of giving themselves."

The guards were shocked by this outburst, and one, nodding to the other, hurried up the stairway.

Éomer shrank away from the bars of the cell, and turned to Aila once more. "Forgive me my anger," he apologized. "It is hard to be thus caged and impotent. I cannot even offer you here the littlest assistance, and at the heart of my own city."

"It's quite alright," replied Aila quietly, her voice weak and unsure. "Your anger is ... well, you should be angry. And injured. It's quite ... apropos," she said finally, and immediately grimaced internally. _Apropos_? she wondered at herself. What could possibly have inspired her to use such a word, and in such a circumstance, in present company? And when she looked to Éomer, who thankfully only glanced at her with a brief expression of not understanding, she wondered if he had always looked so striking and imposing. There was only one reason she ever used such elevated language in such an unnatural context, and that was to impress whoever she was with. She was glad that Éomer had missed her unconscious intent.

He sank back down against the wall, to resume his previous slouching position of utter abjection.

The guard returned with a thick woolen blanket for Aila, which she accepted gratefully, and when she looked back to Éomer, she saw that his small success had lightened his dark expression somewhat.

More time passed, uncounted. The guards changed twice more, though Aila could not calculate what that might mean in terms of hours passed. She and Éomer talked a little, and she found him a surprisingly pleasant companion. There was not much for them to speak of – she told him a little of her journey there so far, but was exceedingly hesitant of talk of the Elves or her place among them. And as for himself, Éomer had little to say that wasn't altogether infuriating and depressing to speak of. The true pleasure of Éomer's company was that it was equally as enjoyable to sit with him in silence, each mulling separate thoughts. There was no pressure to speak or to pity or to sympathize.

After a time of this easy silence, Éomer, who must have had a better handle on the passing of time, spoke to her again. "You can sleep there," he said, indicating a small pallet and mattress in the far corner of the cell. "Prisoners are not generally allowed such luxuries, but there are some perks to my position, fallen though it is. It was brought here last night for my use, but I cannot now sleep in it. It is yours, if you want it. I am not so able to sleep as I might wish." He gave her a sideways glance as she nodded, and he said, "Though this is twice now that you instead have slept where I was meant." The corner of his mouth twitched in the hint of a smile, though it swiftly vanished.

Aila said thoughtfully, "It would satisfy Hilla immensely, I think, to know that I slept in your bed." And she couldn't help herself: she glanced slyly at the Man. _What is wrong with me?_

But Éomer suddenly laughed, bright and fresh and genuine, his deep voice raised in merriment. "Forgive me for that also!" he said, his voice heavy with mirth. "I knew that it would be a safe place for you, and I sent word immediately to my sister to watch for you and to shield you from the court. And," said Éomer, the laughter falling away from his lips, "you are beautiful enough that I knew it would be fathomable."

Aila smiled at him, but shook her head, laughing still a little.

"Please," he said, serious again. "Sleep here," gesturing again to the mattress. "Satisfy my honor enough that I know, at least, you are warm and comfortable by my doing."

And she did lie down, pulling the blanket tight around her, though it was long before she fell to sleep. She was surprised by how exhausted she felt, though she had spent much of her day in idleness in the jail cell. But her mind was full of worry and doubt and ceaseless thought, and the inside of her lower lip was properly ravaged before she finally fell to sleep.

She did not sleep well. Her body was uncomfortable, tucked awkwardly in a loose fetal position atop the small mattress, and the chill of the dungeon air seeped through the thick blanket and froze her skin. And her dreams were haunted by the nearing specter of Saruman. She didn't know how long she slept, but she did eventually wake once more. Éomer was near to her, standing now and pacing back and forth within the small chamber. He seemed of boundless energy and she wondered if he had slept at all. She noticed, also, that his hair had been roughly managed back into its braid, though not as finely done as she had seen previously.

And so like to the morning before, Aila had little desire to rise from the bed. She had little desire to face a new day imprisoned in the cell; there was little for her to do, anyway, so she might as well lie prone and drift in and out of light sleep. She couldn't even tell if it was morning or not. The guards seemed fresh and attentive, but did that indicate a new dawn?

However, something did shortly lead Aila to leap from that bed, something that woke her mind to earnest activity.

A familiar voice called out from the stairway leading down into the prison. It was a voice which flooded Aila's veins with hope and strength and warmth. A voice which rang in her ears with a comfortable melody. A voice that resounded with anxiety and excitement and fear and intensity. A voice, she knew, that belonged to Legolas.

"Aila?"

. . .

[Old English Translations:]

_Hwær is héo?_ = Where is she?


	36. White

A Note From Your Incredibly Apologetic Author: I know, I disappeared again. I was busy, life gets in the way, _blah blah blah_. Excuses. I know you don't want to hear it, so let's just get on with the story. Next chapter to come soon.

Happy New Year!

. . .

Ch. 36 White

"Aila!"

His voice was loud and crisp in her ears, its tenor ringing and echoing against the walls of her mind, and his voice immediately tore Aila violently from her lackluster half-sleep. She scrambled to her feet, ungainly and inelegant – her eyes only half-opened, and blearily, against the dreary, starving light of the dungeon. Her fingers worked desperately, numbly, to throw aside the heavy blanket which had twisted itself into an impossibly complicated knot around her ankles, joined with the folds of her ridiculous skirt. Any thought was frozen in her mind as she dumbly tore at the fabric with stiff, clawing, scrambling fingers. And once she had brutally succeeded in freeing herself, the blanket falling into a heap on the pallet, she stood up and rushed to the bars of the cell. Her dress was askew and twisted from sleeping, and her hair was dirty and tangled; though of course she had no thought to this as she wrapped her fingers tightly around the iron bars. Éomer stood only a few feet behind her left shoulder, watching her with a surprised and bemused expression. He did not recognize the voice so readily, could not puzzle out its meaning, and so he did not understand the strength of her reaction.

But Aila knew. She could hear the muffled music of Legolas' step now as he swiftly descended the stair, and she could hear also the louder shuffle of a Man following, a Man who breathed loudly and stamped along behind the Elf. Aila had only just closed her hands tightly around the cold iron bars, her thumbs barely reaching around to touch the tips of her forefingers, when Legolas finally appeared at the base of the stairway leading into the dungeon. Her breath escaped her in a sigh. Torchlight flashed against his golden hair.

"Aila," said the Elf again at the sight of her, and her name also came from his lips as an expressive sigh. His blue eyes instantly warmed, cool anger to swift relief. One of the guards moved to block him from moving toward her, the Man's voice raised in challenge and alarm – but Legolas only swept him aside with an inattentive shove, not even sparing a glance to the guardsmen as he strode quickly to Aila. And she reacted instinctually, her thoughts still unmoving. She released her clutching grip on the bars and thrust her hands instead towards the Elf, shoving her forearms as far as they would fit through the tightly-spaced bars. She was eager, anxious, her blood was thrumming a victory march through her ears, through her fingers, through ever inch of her. Legolas' touch – gentle, sustaining, enlivening touch! – was only centimeters away. She was an addict halfway through detox, and her drug of choice was nearly within her grasp. If only she could reach.

And then his hands met hers, only an instant later. A shiver of warmth flew down her spine. Long, thin fingers wrapped around hers. Relief. Safety. Satisfaction. A sleepy calmness pulsed within her. She was saved. It was the most primal of responses. Was there really anything else in the world worth caring about?

But those feelings, as quickly as they came, were as quickly replaced by old, familiar, tiring apprehensions. Her heart and lungs filled with them, drowned in them. Those fingers! Those hands! Was it even a week ago that those soft, gentle hands were engaged on the string of Legolas' bow? Had even a week passed since Boromir's death? She had a sudden vision, as Legolas gripped her hands, of those hated black-feathered arrows. Of Boromir's blackened eyes. Of bubbling blood. Of her own crushing mistake. Her right forearm burned as imagined fingers inflamed an imagined wound. She inhaled, sucking her sigh of relief back into her lungs, and she held it there for a few heartbeats too long.

Legolas' hands did not settle in her own. His fingers easily surpassed her hands and wrists, moving steadily to wrap around her forearms, his knuckles pressing against the cool metal of the bars. And Legolas stared at her with wide eyes; with disbelief, with solace, with steady anger, and with hesitation. The pressure of his fingers pulsed on her arms. She thought to pull the corner of her mouth into a smile, but couldn't be sure if she had succeeded. Her breath moved steadily in and out of her lungs now, and each breath was loud and broke the peace of the entire kingdom of Rohan. Air raked over a thick, throbbing soreness that was her throat, it shuffled pebbles in her lungs, it clicked against her teeth; in and out, earsplitting and heavily laden.

Her heart fell heavily into her gut: how was it that her heart still beat so calmly, even while the rest of her was in such turmoil? His dark blue eyes were wide and Aila could see herself reflected in them. The strain in her fingers relaxed. The posture of her body lost some of its tension. She was glad to see Legolas – and he was evidently glad to see her. But for all the pleasure, there was also an awkwardness between them, an enmity of uncertainty. The expanse which had grown between them had not disappeared after their parting. And Aila realized suddenly that she had hoped that the wall between them would have fallen on its own. Had she really been so silly to think so? To hope so? But the trouble between them was not so magically dissipated.

"Release her immediately," said Legolas to the guards, commanding and stern, without even turning back to glance at them. His voice was cold and dense with emotions. He was filling the expanse between himself and Aila with anger, though Aila knew that this particular feeling would not bridge that gap. But his expression, his tone, his every manner of standing … were she one of the guards, she would have complied with the fearsome Elf immediately. The guards, she could see, were more shocked than intimidated, and their eyes were turned on her.

And after the empty, stunned breadth of several seconds, the guards recollected themselves and raised their weapons to challenge the unknown intruder.

It was Éomer's voice that rose up then, with whatever power he could summon while behind the bars of their shared cell – though his voice was quickly drowned out and replaced by another. "Stop!" cried a new addition to those present in the dungeon, and this new voice was weakened and rasping. The door-man, Háma, had finally caught up with Legolas. He emerged at the base of the stair, holding his right hand out and flat to the guards. "By word of Théoden-king: these prisoners are to be released immediately!" he wheezed, and then the Man of Rohan quickly doubled over and gasped to catch his breath. The guards exchanged wary, unsure glances until they were quickly set to rights again by a quick, exasperated glance from Háma and an equally motivated glance from Legolas' sharp, keen eye.

When the door to her cell was unlocked, Aila quickly danced out of it before anyone could change their mind about releasing her and she felt, like a soft breath of wind, that Éomer followed swiftly on her heel – perhaps with the very same thought. She stepped lightly to Legolas, stopping only when she was immediately before him.

And then they stared at one another, both clumsy and unsure.

Aila opened her mouth and took an unwieldy breath, though she found she had nothing to say. She couldn't forget that she had spent their last few days together trying to ignore the Elf completely. She couldn't forget the wall built up between them, the expanse which she could not cross. She and Legolas; they were broken. And so she stared. And he stared back: his eyes seeing that she walked of her own power and did not appear to be injured. He saw her knotted hair, her dirty skin, her tired expression. And his eyes lingered on her twisted Rohirric dress, hanging askew on her shoulders and low on her chest. His mouth tightened on a thin line and he said only, coloring a little, "Your dress."

Aila swiftly raised a widely spread hand, embarrassed, to cover her chest, and for a moment she was only overwhelmed by her mortification.

And then she gave up.

She flung her arms out in one sudden movement, nearly tripping over her own feet as she threw her uncertainty to the proverbial wind and moved to wrap her arms around him. Legolas caught her easily and with some surprise, though within a heartbeat she was warmly tangled in his embrace, releasing another long-held breath as she buried her face against his tunic. Her fingers pressed against his back as she moved her arms tightly around him, spreading her fingers wide before bunching them into taut fists, capturing some of the fabric of Legolas' tunic within her grasping fingers. And he pulled her against him as tightly as he dared, spreading his own fingers wide and covering every inch of her that he could – perhaps still to ensure himself that she were whole and uninjured. And he moved his cheek against her forehead, turning to press his nose into her dirty hair, but did not pull away again. She felt his heartbeat, steady and firm, against her cheek. And even as the feeling of security flooded her, she succumbed immediately to a nostalgic type of fear that crippled her thoughts for a few moments. How had she been able to sleep when the threat of execution was so near? How had she spoken so easily with Éomer knowing that Saruman bore down on her with each living breath? How had she remained caged, so calmly, knowing that Wormtongue bent his will to her death?

And no less than that – this friend. This friend whom she held now within her arms so firmly. How had she forgotten him and their troubles these past days? How had she thought nothing of their embittered friendship?

She tightened her arms around the Elf, and she buried her face further into his chest, pressing and flattening her nose against the fabric of his tunic, ignoring the discomfort. His skin smelled sweet and clean, though his clothes smelled of dust and his tunic had the faint musty smell of horses. Ir reminded her of Éomer.

As she thought of the Marshal, she heard that Háma addressed the very same: "My lord Éomer," and he nodded his head in a shallow bow. The other guardsmen did the same.

Aila twisted enough that she could see the Marshal without relinquishing her grip, still resting her cheek against Legolas' shoulder. She saw that the Man had drawn himself to his full height; and he stood rigidly, overwhelming the remaining free space in the dungeon, with a stern air. Even with dirty clothes and disheveled hair, Éomer's look contained all the pride and strength and discernment of an heir to the throne of Rohan. He nodded briefly to Aila, looking away quickly again, and he turned to Háma. "Take me to my sword," he said, "so that I may lay it at the feet of the king." The door-man nodded, and then Éomer was swiftly led out of the dungeon. He gave no backward glance to Aila and the Elf.

"Take me to the others," Aila said to Legolas as soon as the Marshal and Háma had departed the dungeon.

Legolas very nearly smiled as they broke their tight hug. "I have brought one of them to you," he said, and he called out to the stairwell in his native tongue, twirling the words from his lips with easy expertise and the trill of a surprise. Aila looked just in time to see Duke's nose breach the obstruction of the wall, following swiftly by the rest of the dog as he loped into the dungeon. And again, every thought flooded out of her, and every emotion but joy as she fell to knees to embrace the Doberman. For a moment, as she kissed him and he licked her face, she might have been on the carpeted floor of her apartment in Boston, embracing her dog after a long day in the lab.

She breathed him in, too; the dog smell. It was the most comforting of them all.

And so with one hand in Legolas's grip, and the other resting on Duke's shoulders, and a smile on her lips, Aila left the dungeon behind. Her eyes were blind now to the intricacy and delicacy of Meduseld Hall, and she did not note the winding pathways which brought her back to the throne room of the great Hall. But her eyes did recognize again the light airiness of the place, which was now more appropriate since she was no longer in mortal danger. She could now appreciate its beauty. A long brazier in the center of the room, which had been cold and empty before, now blazed with a merry fire and smoke trailed upward to a well-placed hole in the roof. The smoke seeped out into the vast forgetful blueness of the sky beyond. And Théoden-king was standing now, looking decades younger, and speaking with his niece Éowyn. The niece's hand seemed to support her uncle still, though her face was decorated with a too-wide smile that suited her well. A ring of servants and guards and Rohirrim flanked the king and his niece. Wormtongue was nowhere to be seen.

And then, there they were: Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli. They stood not too far from the king, speaking in hushed tones with one another as they awaited the return of their Elf.

Gandalf. Aila sighed. She froze where she was, mid-step, pulling against Legolas' hand as he continued to stride forward. Duke halted obediently and sat at her heel. He was there, the Wizard, exactly as she remembered him: tall and straight, with a full thick beard and plentiful robes. But this Gandalf was no longer weary and grey. He was now resplendent in white, a shining beacon, a glowing symbol, bright even within the well-lit hall. He was such a luminous being that even daylight could not contend with him. And the Wizard – wise, and thoughtful, and powerful – turned just in time to catch Aila as she ran to hug him. He made a sound of surprise, and returned her embrace tentatively after a few moments. A low laugh began to rumble in his chest. "Aila," he said, as if testing her name on his tongue. He tried it out several times. "Yes," he said softly, "I remember you." His ambient laugh deepened. "I could have used your skill some moments ago here, had you not first gotten yourself captured and imprisoned." He pulled her away, a chiding, joyful look in his cool blue eyes. He smiled at her in a grandfatherly way. "But no matter," he sighed. "I was enough, in the end." His hands rested on her shoulders as he looked at her, a frown alighting on his lips. "A bath, I think," he said, perhaps more to himself than any other. "No doubt, but not before you have similarly assaulted the lords Aragorn and Gimli. Please," he said, smiling again, and he turned her toward the Ranger.

Aragorn made a mocking face of horror and raised his hands to defend himself before he warmly accepted Aila into his arms, speaking words of gladness and welcome. She assured him that Éomer had kept her well, such as it was, and which she thought was only partially a lie. Gimli's beard scratched her face and neck as she hugged him, but it only made her clutch the Dwarf more firmly, and he looked pleased at having not been left out, grumbling that she release him even as his own embrace worked harder to keep her there.

When she rose, she saw that the king was walking toward her, slowly, and with Éowyn.

"You," he whispered, his eyebrows arched high over dark eyes that looked so similar to his nephew's now that the cloudiness had been vanquished from them. "I saw you," he whispered, with not a little wonder. "I saw your face, through the mists, when there had been no other but Saruman's for a long time." He reached with an unsteady hand, feeling her cheek with a cold, wrinkled touch. "You gave me hope, when there had been so little reason to hope for so long. I dreamed for so long."

Aila had nothing to say. She was mesmerized by the king's face which she had not seen so well before. He seemed to grow stronger, younger every second. His liveliness returned with each breath. Gandalf spoke for her. "But see!" he said, his robes and beard rustling. "You dream no longer. You live."

"Alas!" replied the king with a sigh, "that these evil days should be mine, and should come in my old age instead of that peace which I have earned." The king looked down, glancing at his hands as he flexed the fingers, testing muscles and stretching tendons. Gandalf's eyes flickered to watch the king's movements.

"Your fingers would remember their old strength better, if they grasped a sword-hilt," said the Wizard.

"Take this, dear lord!" shouted a voice from the far end of the hall, and they all turned to see Éomer striding quickly towards them, sword lifted high in his hand. "It was ever at your service," said the Marshal of Rohan as he moved to kneel at his uncle's feet, holding the sword aloft for the old Man to grip.

Théoden took it, wordlessly, and flexed his fingers around the worn leather of the hilt. The blade was a good one, strong and weathered. Its steel was a fierce, deep grey; well-used but whole and without notches. And the hilt's leather was stained with blood and sweat. The sword of a noble and the sword of a warrior, all at once.

"_Westu Théoden hál!_" cried Éomer, after Théoden had taken his blade. "it is a joy to see you return to your own. Never again shall it be said, Gandalf," said the Man, returning to his feet and addressing Aila's small party, "that you come only with grief!"

Éowyn moved forward then, to catch her brother between her arms tightly. Aila noted that even tall Éowyn seemed dwarfed by her brother's size, and that their dark blonde hair was indistinguishable from the other's, even when immediately beside one another. A pair of siblings could not have been more easily identified. After a long stretch, the king spoke to interrupt them, though it was obvious to Aila that Éowyn had not yet had her fill of her finally freed brother. "Take back your sword, Éomer, sister-son," the king said. "And send Háma to fetch my own dear sword." The door-man left without any further command.

"I seem myself to be lacking a sword," said Gandalf, with a sideways glance to Aila. She nodded quickly, taking a few steps backward to remove herself from the small group and to exit the hall. And then she saw, with much relief, Hilla standing near the perimeter of the room. Aila nearly ran to her, and nearly threw her arms around the old woman's neck.

"Child," said Hilla lovingly. "Come. Swiftly, move fast! We'll have you back in just a moment!" As that familiar smile graced her face, the Rohirric woman took Aila's arm and led Aila finally out of Meduseld hall, more than a full day after entering it.

"I should change back into my traveling clothes," Aila said to Hilla as they reentered the woman's small house. The sight of Hilla's house was instantly comforting to Aila, and had the indescribable feeling of home. As immediately as Aila had said those words, she saw her clothes, clean and folded, upon the mattress where she had slept. Two gleaming swords were placed beside the neat pile of clothing. Aila gazed longingly at the mattress as she walked to her things.

"I've washed them," confirmed the woman. "But you cannot put clean clothes on that dirty body! I must insist that you wash – quickly, but well. And what would they say, after all?" Hilla said with a keen smile. "If I let the lord's mistress go around such?" She laughed boisterously, her chest and belly heaving. Aila couldn't help but join in a small way. "But come along, follow me! We'll clean you up before we send you off to wherever you go next!"

Aila, seeing that Hilla would not take no for an answer, followed her swiftly, begrudging the thought and bracing herself for another poor Rohirric bath.

But if before Aila had expected pleasure and received discomfort and some little pain, this time Aila was allowed the small comforts she had originally expected. She was given fresh, clean water to wash with, pleasantly cool to touch, and a palm-sized oval of unscented soap. It was, finally, refreshing and satisfying.

When she changed back into her freshly laundered clothes it was with a pleasure that she had never felt in dressing before. Her leggings fit snugly again, as they had not since they left Lórien, her cloak was soft and warm to her touch, and even her boots had been scrubbed thoroughly and expertly mended. Aila felt fresh, renewed. That was it, she thought: _new. _Where she had felt beaten and hopeless only hours ago, she now felt renewed invigoration and determination. Aila strapped Núadin around her waist, adjusting the sword so that it hung just so, and she hoisted Glamdring in her right hand to carry to Gandalf. And she felt complete, proud and tall, standing with her sword at her hip. New, she reminded herself. Renewed. She set her jaw and gave Hilla a grim smile, though it was with tears of thankfulness brimming in her eyes with which Aila thanked the woman profusely.

But Hilla only returned her smiles and thanks with a frown, as the older woman looked hard into Aila's face and at her clothing, her stance. "You look as if you mean to ride to war," said the woman.

Aila shifted Glamdring into her left hand and placed her right upon the grip of her sword. "I do," she replied softly. Aila's path forward was more clear to her now as it had ever been.

"I do not understand," said Hilla, her usual joviality entirely dissipated. "I did not hear that such a decision has yet been made."

"It will be made," replied Aila, and Hilla's face only grew in concern. "You should gather up your things – only what you need most, and nothing more! I think you will be going to Dunharrow soon."

The woman only stared at Aila for several seconds; and then, shaking her head as though to clear out unwanted thoughts, Hilla gently took Aila's hand and began to lead her out of the house. "We must get you back to Meduseld," said the woman softly, "but first, I think, we must go to see my oldest sister-daughter."

"Hilla, please," replied Aila. "I don't think we really have any time …."

"Nonsense," said Hilla, in a voice which told Aila not to argue any further. "Hold your tongue, save your breath. If you truly go to war, the men will have nothing for you. No, no – let the Women of the Mark guard you." And Hilla retreated into quiet thoughtfulness, so that Aila could not press any questions.

And without so much as a knock or word of warning, Hilla walked into her niece's home and sought out the younger woman with breathless Rohirric. The niece quickly emerged from a back room, and Aila was stunned by the presence of the woman. She was tall and thickly built, with strong features and an aquiline nose, features more expected in an ancient Roman bust than in the face of the Rohirric woman. Hilla's niece nodded, saying precious few words, as her aunt explained whatever her present concern happened to be. Once the intent was clear both women erupted in a busy flurry of activity. And within minutes, Aila's wet hair was tightly braided, away from her face and bound beneath the nape of her neck in a trailing twist, and Hilla was tying the final cord in the side of Aila's newest garment, courtesy of the niece: a thick and supple leather hauberk that wrapped closely around her torso and shoulders. The leather was painstakingly made and maintained, and the leather cords that tied up each of the sides were guided by small interlacing metal rings that protected the potentially weak seams. And on the chest of the garment pranced the proud, white, long-legged horse of Rohan. The white main flew back, flung in war-dance, cold flame.

Lastly, Hilla's niece gave her a thin shirt of mail links, and a bag within which to carry this gift. "Wear chains in battle," said the niece haltingly in the Common Speech, rattling the metal shirt. "Wear leather always." She smiled and laid a soft hand on Aila's shoulder, her fingers caressing the soft leather. "Go now proud to war. You are Shield-Maiden of Rohan."

Aila proffered her hand, to shake that of the nameless niece who had given her such gifts, but the niece's hand grasped instead Aila's forearm, in a firm grip. Aila returned the gesture. She offered her hand to Hilla also in this fashion, but the rotund woman pushed away her hand and pulled Aila into a gentle hug.

Thus outfitted, Aila walked with Hilla back to Meduseld.

When they arrived, they found some commotion at the main steps of the hall, and people were gathered anxiously around to watch. Hilla and Aila pushed their way through the crowd until they stood at its front, just at the base of the stairway which led the last few meters up the rocky hill to the hall Meduseld. Théoden stood, proud and tall, even younger than he had been not half an hour ago, with his own sword Herugrim gleaming in his hand. Gandalf stood beside him, his white robes billowing in the shallow wind. Aila looked to Aragorn, just beside Gandalf, but garnered no information from the steely look that Aragorn held. And between Aila and Aragorn crouched Wormtongue, cowering halfway down the stair. And so Aila watched, amidst the townsfolk who had gathered at the stair, separated from Gandalf and the king and certain safety by the single man that Aila currently feared the most.

"Do you hear this, Wormtongue," the king was shouting. "This is your choice: to ride with me to war, and let us see in battle whether you are true; or to go now, whither you will. But then, if we ever meet again, I shall not be merciful."

Aila caught a glint of yellow, and saw Legolas as he stepped from behind Aragorn. He looked from Gríma to Aila anxiously; she was not more than ten or fifteen feet from the serpent, where he crouched, almost coiled, on the step. Wormtongue, following the Elf's gaze, smiled when he saw Aila. It was not a welcoming or comforting smile. The worm turned this discomfiting smile on the king, and heaved his chest to spit at the ground near Théoden's feet. Before the projected spittle had even hit the steps, Wormtongue had flung his cloak back and was rushing down the steps. Towards Aila; and she only just caught the gleam of the silver dagger in his hand when he was not five feet form her. She took a hasty step backward, but was rebuffed by the bodies in the crowd immediately behind her. It would take too long to draw Núadin, it would take too long to draw even Glamdring, which was still held in her left hand. Aila's breath was trapped in her throat.

A woman behind Aila screamed at the sight of the knife, and a man shouted out. Hilla moved as if to stand in front of Aila, and Legolas began to rush down the stairs. But before the Elf could advance even a few steps in Aila's direction, Gríma was flung back soundly by some unseen force. It was Gandalf, who now bore a frightening mien and wielded his staff fiercely, pointing both staff and a black gaze at the writhing man on the ground.

Gandalf walked a few steps down the stairway, holding his staff out as a present threat to Wormtongue. "Begone, snake! Down on your belly!" cried the Wizard.

The king, moving not an inch but raising his hand in command, his voice stern and full of power cried, "Leave this place, worm." His voice was even and cold. "Return never again to this city or the lands of nobler Men than yourself! I curse you to walk from henceforward, with no gift of forgiveness nor horse from me. You deserve neither."

Éomer said, with a snort of derision, "None would bear him." He stood only just behind Legolas, some half-way down the stairs, and far ahead of any other beside the Elf.

The worm cast a dark look to Aila, but that was all the threat which he could muster. He scrabbled unsteadily to his feet, moving away from Meduseld, from the Wizard, and from the king with a quickness that arose from desperation and fear. Jeers from the townspeople followed him as he retreated, and, when the traitor was out of their sight, cheers.

"No my guests, come!" said Théoden, waving his nephew and Legolas and Aila back towards the hall. "Come and take refreshment. That is done," glancing in the direction in which Wormtongue had fled.

With the helping hands of Hilla and the people of Edoras who surrounded her, Aila regained her balance and collected herself to walk up the stairs back into Meduseld. Éomer and Legolas followed after her once she had passed them, and she paused in front of Gandalf. The Wizard waited for her.

Aila handed Glamdring to its proper owner without a word. Gandalf smiled, and said his thanks.

"Why did you give this to me?" Aila blurted, watching as the Wizard removed the sword from its sheath to test its true weight. He heard her question; would it not have been easier to keep the sword himself? And Aila might still be in Lórien, taking luxuriously long baths and safely learning Sindarin with Isgwen under a golden canopy.

"I had to be sure," replied the Wizard, with the hint of a smile behind his plentiful facial hair, "that you would be here to give it back to me." And so, Aila thought, Galadriel was right. It had been Gandalf's intention. The Wizard, having tested out his old sword, promptly leaned it against the outer wall of the hall, immediately beside Aragorn's blade. "I shall leave this here, to keep company with Andúril. I suggest you follow suit, Aila," he said with a glance to the sword at her hip. "We shall have little need for weapons now within Meduseld." And Gandalf walked into Meduseld, following after Aragorn, as Aila began to unbuckle the sheath from around her waist.

"You look well," said Éomer quietly as he moved to walk past her and into the hall.

Aila nearly laughed. "You mean now that I've washed a little, or now that I'm no longer in that hideous dress?"

But Éomer returned her small speech with a frown. "I mean that you look well," he said, "dressed as shield-maiden of Rohan." And he walked into the hall as Aila looked after him.

Once within the hall, Aila sat beside Gimli at the table, where the Dwarf was already happily slurping his ale and filling his cheeks with meat and bread. He grinned broadly at her, mouth full, but did not spare a moment for greeting. Aila laughed at him.

"Now, Gandalf," said Théoden-king now that they had all sit. "You said that you had counsel to give, if I would hear it. What is your counsel?"

"You have already taken it," replied Gandalf. "To put your trust in Éomer, rather than in a man of crooked mind. To cast aside regret and fear. To do the deed at hand. Every man that can ride should be sent west at once, as Éomer counseled you: we must first destroy the threat of Saruman, while we have time. If we fail, we fall. If we succeed – then we will face the next task." To the East. "Meanwhile your people that are left, the women and the children and the old, should fly to the refuges that you have in the mountains. Let them take provision, but delay not, nor burden themselves with treasure, great or small. It is their lives that are at stake."

"This counsel seems good to me now," replied Théoden. "Let all my folk get ready! But you my guests – truly you have said, Gandalf, that the courtesy of my hall is lessened. You have ridden through the night, and the morning wears away. Eat now, and a guest-house shall be made ready: there you shall sleep, when you have finished eating."

"Nay, lord," said Aragorn, though Aila wished he would not. "There is no rest yet for the weary. The men of Rohan must ride forth today, and we will ride with them." Gimli and Legolas nodded, though Gimli's ferocious gesture was lessened by the food trailing in his thick beard. "We did not bring our weapons to rest against your wall, Lord of the Mark. And I promised Éomer that my sword and his should be drawn together."

"Now indeed there is hope of victory!" said Éomer, his dark eyes shining.

"Hope, yes. But Isengard is strong," warned Gandalf. "Do not delay, Théoden, when we are gone. Lead your people swiftly to the Hold of Dunharrow in the hills."

"Nay, Gandalf," said Théoden, shaking his head intently. "You do not know your own skill in healing. It shall not be so. I myself will go to war, to fall in the front of the battle, if it must be so. Thus shall I sleep better."

And around the hall, Rohirrim and Riders took up the cry, "The Lord of the Mark will ride! Forth Eorlingas!" A clatter of heels and spear-butts interrupted the call as men hurried off to prepare themselves and spread the word.

"But your people must not be unarmed and shepherdless," said Gandalf. "Who shall guide and govern them in your place?"

"There must be one to remain behind," agreed the king, but his face was troubled, and it was evident that his mind was churning quickly with no reward. "In whom do my people trust?" he asked beseechingly.

It was Háma who took up the challenge of response. "In the house of Eorl," replied the door-man quickly. He stood not far off from the table. The king shook his head in despair.

"I have no child," said the king sadly. "Théoden my son is slain. I go to battle myself, in this I am immovable, and though I name my sister-son Éomer as my heir, I know him we cannot spare, nor would he stay. And he is the last of my House."

"I said not Éomer," replied Háma, with a nod of apology to the heir. "And he is not the last. There is Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, his sister. She is fearless and high-hearted. All love her. Let her be as lord to the Eorlingas, while we are gone."

"It shall be so," said Théoden after a moment's thought, turning to Éowyn and resting a gentle hand on her cheek. Her stony face was now stricken. "Let the heralds announce to the folk that the lady Éowyn will lead them." And to Éowyn alone, he said, "I go forth, my dear, and it seems like to be my last riding. If neither myself nor Éomer return, then it shall be to you to rule and defend our people."

"Speak not so!" cried Éowyn. "A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return." She looked then to Aragorn.

The Ranger gave her a small, kindly smile. "The king shall come again," he said. "Fear not! And in your journey to Dunharrow, you shall have Aila as companion and counselor."

Aila, who had just been passing a large scrap of meat to Duke, where the Doberman had been sitting patiently beside the table, jerked her attention back to the conversation quickly. "Not true!" she cried out automatically, as the Doberman snapped the meat from the air as she dropped it.

"Aila," said Legolas softly. "We're going to battle. It's no place for you."

"Away from all of you is no place for me," she responded, loudly. "I think I've learned my lesson, about a thousand time over, here in Edoras." Her voice grew louder still, as though her volume alone would persuade those with which she was arguing.

And as Aragorn and Legolas wound themselves up to convince Aila to go to Dunharrow, Gimli belched through his beer and beard. "I say she comes," he said gruffly, reaching up to slap a hand against her shoulder. "It's been too long since she had the pleasure to swing her sword, as all of us! She is hardly any less fit for battle than many of us, and I should be very angry to leave her again in the care of any other when we have only just come together again!"

"I have only just met your friend," said Éomer now, "and it surprises me that you might rally that she be left behind. She seems no less eager and able than any of us, and I, for one, would be glad for her."

"Then how might you prevent any other of your women from coming with us," said Legolas hotly, "if they seemed equally eager? Should we bring everyone with us that had the smallest desire to?"

Éomer now turned to the Elf sharply, with a wide frown. Even sitting, he seemed intimidating. "Aila is dressed as a shield-maiden of Rohan, and theirs is an ancient and proud lineage. But Aila is not Eorlinga. She carries the blessing of our fierce women, their protection, but not their oath, and not their duty. The spear-women of Rohan are bound to protect the Eorlingas, wherever that might lead them when the Riders are gone to battle. None of the shield-maidens will ask to go, for that is not their place. Éowyn, my sister, will lead her brethren into the mountains, and her sisters the shield-women will defend and protect our people. It is their place, their duty. Aila has no part in this. She comes if she wishes, because that is the respect I offer her. No other will ask."

"Aila will come," said Gandalf, in a voice of finality. "There is no time left to argue the point. Find armor as you can. Arm yourselves well. And make haste." And with that, the Wizard left his seat and followed the king out of the hall.

. . .

Within only a few hours, the four companions and Gandalf were ready, beside the king and his host of Rohirrim, to ride into the west. The king had officially given Shadowfax to Gandalf, a gift which the Wizard had gratefully accepted. The horse-lord danced and whinnied beneath the Wizard's touch. Legolas and Aragorn were given the same mounts they had had before, and Éomer stood among them as well. The Marshal's tall horse pawed at the ground restlessly. Duke thoroughly sniffed any horse within his range.

"Well," said Gimli, breathing deep, with a satisfied smile. "At last we set off. Men need many words before deeds. My axe is restless in my hands. Though I do not doubt that these Rohirrim are fell-handed when they come to it," said the Dwarf, looking up at tall Éomer. "Nonetheless this is not the warfare that suits me. How shall I come to battle? I wish I could walk and not bump like a sack at Gandalf's saddlebow."

"A safer seat than many, I guess," replied Legolas, with less happiness in his tone than the Dwarf's. "Yet doubtless Gandalf will gladly put you down on your feet when blows begin. An axe is no weapon for a rider."

Éomer laughed. Aila wondered why he and Gimli were both in such jovial spirits, when faced with war and death. "Hail, Gimli Glóin's son! I have not had time to learn gentle speech under your rod, as you promised. But shall we not put aside our quarrel? At least I will speak no evil of the Lady of the Wood."

"I will forget my wrath for a while, Éomer son of Éomund," said Gimli darkly, "but if you ever chance to see the Lady Galadriel with your eyes, then you shall acknowledge her the fairest of ladies, or our friendship will end."

"So be it!" replied Éomer, laughing. "Though I wish not, in doing so, to offend the lady present." He nodded to Aila. "In token of pardon, then, I beg that you will ride with me. Gandalf will be at the head with the Lord of the Mark; but Firefoot, my horse, will bear both of us, if you will."

"I thank you indeed," replied Gimli, taken aback but well pleased. "I will gladly go with you, if Legolas and Aila, my dear comrades, may ride beside us."

"It shall be so!" responded Éomer. "Legolas upon my left and Aragorn upon my right, and none will dare stand before us!"

They did take these positions, as Éomer had set them. When Legolas leapt onto the pale horse in front of Aila, she leaned forward to ask, "Are you angry that I'm coming?"

He took a moment to respond. "It is hard to say," he said, and after a pause: "I am frightened, but my heart is glad. It is hard to reconcile."

And with the blow of concerted horns, and the shouts of man and horse, they began their westward charge. Gandalf led the group, riding beside the king, though the Wizard's white cloak and flowing hair and silver steed were easiest to see. He was a beacon, dazzling, even amidst the gleam and sparkle of the spearheads in the sunlight. The White Rider, into the West.

. . .

[Translations: Rohirric/Old English]  
_Westu Théoden hál = Long live [the king] Théoden!_ (as far as I can tell!)


	37. A Conversation

Author's Note: Ok, first of all, I'm the worst. This chapter isn't supposed to be so short but once I finished this part I knew that I couldn't hold back from you lovely people any longer. However, I think you'll like this chapter a lot; despite it's brevity it is filled with some strong emotions and of course features our favorites. It took a long time to get this conversation planned out right and written correctly. (Obviously not six months, but haven't I already admitted that I'm the worst?) Please, please enjoy. I'll be back with Helm's Deep soon (god willing). Love, love, so much love. Seriously, you are, each and every one of you, the best.

. . .

Ch. 37 A Conversation

The sun was already westering as the Rohirrim began their journey. Long, thin fingers of light were flung from the bright orb of the sun with the violence of arrows, and each of these pierced through the absent blue sky and drew sweat from Man and horse alike. All around Aila there was a cacophony of movement; snorting horses, stamping hooves, the clatter of metal, the creak of leather. Beside her, Éomer's steed ran as though his feet didn't touch the ground, and the Marshal's long blond hair was flying freely behind him – like so many of his Riders, his metal helm was strapped to his saddle just in front of his right knee, a small concession to the heat of the afternoon. Seated behind the Man, Gimli had his mouth set hard in a grim line so that it disappeared entirely behind the tangles of his thick beard. Dust, thrown up at the urging of the horses' hooves, lined Aila's nostrils and throat. Flecks of sweat from both Man and beast flew about like a light rain. And though Aila tried to stay strategically behind Legolas' back to avoid the brunt of the dust and the heat, she succeeded very little in either endeavor. All around her the Riders of the Rohirrim pushed their steeds forward, moving swiftly over the plain and apparently heedless of any discomfort.

But Aila noticed. Her body was exhausted and aching; still sore from their anxious and desperate run through the grasslands, still painfully mindful of the sleepless night spent in a prison cell the night before, and still restless from that very same imprisonment. She was tired of sitting the horse after only a few hours' ride, and she was well and truly hot beneath the leather of her new shield-maiden jerkin. Sweat trickled down her forehead to collect in her eyebrows, but whenever she leaned out from behind Legolas to try to cool herself in the wind generated by the horse's movement, she was greeted only by more dust and the errant small pebble.

Legolas sat in front of her on the light gray steed, sitting tall and straight-backed, his hands laced into the thick mane of the horse. Aila did not know how to interpret the stiffness of his spine, and so she held back from clutching too tightly to him. Rather, she kept her hands resting lightly on her thighs – near enough to his cloak and torso that she could reach forward if need be, she thought, but far enough that she could pretend that she was confident (and not upsettingly nervous) about her ability to stay ahorse.

She probably should have just swallowed her pride and uncertainty.

Even as she was feeling quite adept, moving her body with the rhythm of the horse's stride, maintaining her balance wonderfully, the galloping Arod had some cause to leap – over some small depression or an outcropping of rocks that had abruptly sprung up in his path – and the sudden jump came as a great surprise to Aila and broke the cadence which she had settled into. Without even the slightest warning, Aila began to tumble backward over the rear of the horse and an image flashed in her mind of being trampled beneath the many hooves of the horses who followed behind. Her mouth was wide in a silent shout that she was too surprised to give voice to; her hands flew forward, fingers desperately seeking the edges of the cloak that she had felt so near to only moments before. The widening expanse between herself and Legolas seemed to open by a mile with each passing millisecond. But even as the expanse between herself and safety seemed ever too wide, Aila managed to grab onto the grey-green fabric of Legolas' cloak and use it to pull herself upright again. Arod had resettled into the same galloping meter with no notice that one of his riders had very nearly fallen to her death.

Gasping and shaking, her entire body thrumming with adrenaline, Aila wrapped her arms tightly now around Legolas' torso, interlacing her fingers to lock her grip, and she pressed her cheek firmly between his shoulder blades. She focused entirely on the measurement of her shallow breaths and closed her eyes.

The Elf's hand flew up then from the horse's mane and he found her interlaced hands, wrapping his own fingers around hers. The message was clear: hold tight and stay there. Aila obliged happily for the rest of the ride. After a few minutes, however, she did gain the courage to turn her head to spare a faltering glance over her shoulder, back at the legion of Riders who had been so near to trampling her. It was a sobering and frightful sight. And as she turned away again, she caught Éomer's glance and he nodded to her, acknowledging that he had witnessed her near-fall. She smiled weakly at him, and at Gimli too, who was staring at her wide-eyed and whose hands were now white-knuckled on the side-greaves of the Marshal's armor. She closed her eyes again against the fabric of Legolas' cloak. And no matter how warm she became, she did not release him even an inch. His hand remained on hers.

The sun sank, evening hurried behind.

The _éored _did not ride far into the night, but soon made camp amidst a scattered grouping of boulders that jutted randomly from the ground. The heavy and cool air of the full night came as a relief, both cooling her body and deadening the cloud of dust that had risen around them as they rode. The Rohirrim braided the reins of their horses together in a tight, regimented line as Aila had witnessed before, and they went about the business of making their camp.

Legolas leapt down from the horse first, once Aila had released her hold on him (and she had waited until she was absolutely sure the horse had stopped). He turned to help her down, reaching up as she slid down the flank of the stallion. And for a moment, they paused, Aila's hands on his shoulders and his on her waist. Neither said anything; Legolas seemed to look over her, a look that she had seen all too often lately, a once-over to ensure that she looked healthy and uninjured. And then Legolas dropped his hands and disappeared into the contained mayhem that was the Rohirric camp. For a few moments, Aila indulged in her sadness.

Duke caught up with her a few minutes later. The Doberman had been running beside Arod for the first few hours of the journey, and Aila was amazed that the dog could run so fast and for so long, but eventually had fallen behind. It seemed that he hadn't fallen that far behind, again to Aila's amazement. His fur was slick and his tongue lolled from the side of his mouth, but his ears and eyes were as alert and happy as ever.

She took the dog to a nearby campfire, where Éomer had called out to her to join him. Wordlessly, the Marshal first poured water from his own water-skin into a bowl and held it out for Duke. The Doberman lapped gladly and messily at the water, his stubby tail wagging with pleasure. Aila had the distinct impression that the dog had heartily enjoyed the day's run. She smiled at him, and also at Éomer, who returned it. Gimli, sitting on the other side of the Man, looked as normal and relaxed as ever – as though he had not spent the afternoon and evening atop a gigantic beast he cared little for. Well, Aila amended, not quite relaxed, as the Dwarf called loudly for ale that very moment. She smiled at him, too. Aragorn passed them on his way to Gandalf and Théoden, and gave a word of greeting as he went. Aila saw no sign of Legolas.

She distracted herself, as was her usual, by observing closely the Riders who collected around the fire with her. Éomer and his companions did not repeat the ceremony which Aila had witnessed before her arrival in Edoras – perhaps, she thought, that was to mark a mission completed and would be inappropriate at the start of their journey. No other small ceremony seemed to replace it, but rather the meal was a rushed affair and the Rohirrim moved quickly to sleep. A few quick jokes, some hushed laughter, and Aila found herself stretched on the ground not far from the fire, her cloak bundled beneath her head and Duke pressed against her side. She was surprisingly content, even here in a foreign place and surrounded by Men off to war, and she stared up at the stars as sleep began pulling heavily at her eyelids. But for Duke, apparently, sleep would not come so easily. The Doberman moved restlessly for a few minutes, a whining groan released from his throat, and then, before Aila could stop him, the dog was up and trotting away. She jumped up, rubbing sleep from the corners of her eyes, and hurried after him while wrapping her cloak around her shoulders to ward off the cool night breeze.

The dog wove between sleeping Riders, firelight occasionally glinting off of the stone at his throat. Aila followed; exhausted, annoyed, but curious. The Doberman went all the way to the edge of the camp and around one of the great stones. The stone jutted up from the ground at the most extreme angle, standing like a wary sentinel, reaching eternally for the familiar starry sky. Her dog disappeared for a moment until Aila caught up to him and herself turned around the corner of the stone; she saw Duke settling down to lay against Legolas' legs where the Elf sat with his back against the rock. Legolas was already stroking the dog's head with a gentle hand and speaking softly in elvish. She knew that he must have been immediately aware of her presence, but the Elf did not acknowledge it.

She stopped a little short of them, not sure what to say or do. Seeing that Duke chose to sleep with Legolas, after abandoning her, broke her heart a little bit; it would have been a lie to say otherwise. Better, maybe, to make a joke of it, as if that would hurt less. "I think Duke loves you better now," she said slowly, hoping that her voice sounded light. "That kind of hurts my feelings." She tried to smile, but Legolas did not smile back. He turned away from her, his hand moving again to stroke Duke's spine from neck to tail; but as Aila sat down against the rock on the other side of Duke, he stopped his movement abruptly. Legolas rested both of his hands on his lap and turned his attention out into the blackness of the night. Aila followed his gaze, even as he ignored her, allowing her eyes to adjust to the weak light of the stars that watched silently from above. Her jaw began to work, her teeth began worrying again at her lip. She had never felt so strongly the abyss that stretched between Legolas and herself. It broke her heart afresh.

And then she heard Legolas inhale sharply and she knew it to be the precursor to a hard conversation. She tried to steel herself for it, failed, and instead simply turned her head to stare at Legolas' profile. The Elf didn't turn.

"We ride to war, Aila," he said, his voice low and accusatory. Only then did he turn his head to look at her, his eyes meeting hers to ensure the strength of his point. "We ride to war, and many of us to our deaths." There was definitely a distinctly sour and direct note in those words. "You should not have come."

Aila made no response, and so Legolas turned away again, moving his eyes to the grey-shadow that was Rohan. She watched for a moment, seeing that his jaw tensed and set narrowly, seeing that his eyes stared blankly forward. He did not turn again to speak further, even as she watched him silently. Duke exhaled in a loud snort between them. Finally, Aila said quietly, mournfully, "You used to laugh."

It was now Legolas' turn to make no response, but his stony face gave way to a frown.

"Do you remember?" she persisted, her voice soft, indeed barely above a whisper against the stillness of the night. "You used to laugh, and smile. You made jokes, you teased me about my poor swordsmanship."

Legolas still would not turn to look at her. He looked to his hands in his lap, his eyebrows settled low in confusion, and then he turned his frown again to the blankness of the night in front of him. "I had the impression that you didn't care for me very much then," Legolas replied, his tone bitter.

And though it was Legolas' laugh that she spoke of, it was Aila's that rang into the night, harsh and abrupt. "You're right," she acknowledged, her breathy mirth absorbed into the blackness. The sound disappeared as though it had never been. "I thought you were rude and childish – which I know is a silly thing to think of an Elf. I didn't like you very much then. But I was wrong," she allowed, her voice sinking again to a low tenor. She was still watching him closely, though he still did not turn his head. She shook her head. "I like you so much less now."

Now that did it.

He turned so instantly that her eyes couldn't follow the movement at all; but suddenly there he was, yellow eyebrows raised high in incredulity and anger writ large across his brow. He glared at her for the space of several seconds. She returned his gaze with sadness. "You would so punish me for wanting to protect you?" he cried, his fingers unconsciously balling into fists in his lap. "For caring enough about you that I do not wish to see you killed?"

"Oh, haven't we already learned that lesson, Legolas?" she replied, exasperated, very nearly rolling her eyes at him. "Haven't we found that I'm much safer when I'm with the three of you?"

"This is not the time for that, Aila," he replied, in a tone as one would chastise a misbehaving child. The Elf even went so far as to raise an accusatory forefinger between them. "You were safer with us when we traveled, when we attempted to slip past our enemies, but now we march directly to them. How do you not understand that we ride to battle? It is not a place for you."

Again, Aila was quiet. Her eyes moved from his scolding finger, which he quickly returned to his lap, to the anger and frustration in his eyes. She tried to remind herself that she was actually sad, actually mournful – but it was hard to recall as she felt offense and anger building within her lungs. Aila wrinkled her nose, in dual indignation and mild disgust (though what particularly she was disgusted with, she wasn't quite sure yet). She said, "There was a time when you wouldn't have allowed me to leave your side, battle or no. Surely, at least, you remember that? – It was only a few days ago."

She knew that she dealt him a wound with that speech, and she saw the building blocks of her outrage reflected in his own face. His eyebrows lowered again to shadow his eyes, and his tone matched their intent. "You chose to go with Éomer," he replied slowly, accusation and betrayal filling every word so that each fell like a lead weight into the abyss between them. "I tried to convince you to stay, but you left. You were the one who chose stranger over friend."

And as she had wounded him, Legolas now wounded her. His words, his tone, his very expression; each cut Aila to the very quick. Her sadness flipped and roiled, growing to anger and humming, low and thick in her stomach, stacking bricks within her lungs and restricting her airflow. Her fingertips crackled with discordant vibrations. "You're right," she replied, her tone wickedly crisp. "I made my choice then. And I make my choice now," she emphasized. "I will not be left behind. I will not be separated from the three of you again."

"Aila!" Legolas, nearly shouting, was visibly shaking with angry disbelief. His hands flew up in frustration. "I have to protect you! I have to know that you are safe!" And something in his tone struck further discord within Aila, a note which had been played all too often. In his words sat a theme which she had grown to deeply loath. Fury exploded inside of her. If she had been searching for the source of her earlier subtle disgust, here it was. Her disgust blossomed now, fed by her rage.

"Why," she challenged, and the venom in her voice surprised even her. "Why do you feel so driven to protect me? Because I'm your friend? Because I am Aila?" she asked, leaning forward towards him, "Or because _im Aearvenel_?" She spat the Sindarin like filth from her lips. The force of her anger seemed to have blown Legolas aback, his face a perfect mix of surprise and chagrin. And though in a different circumstance she might have read his hesitation differently, now Aila only saw in his expression a confirmation of her assumption. "I thought so," she said hotly, twisting her mouth into a disgusted frown. "If you were so concerned with the safety of the Light Bearer, then you should have left me behind in Lothlórien. You should have insisted that I stay, instead of telling me to go."

Their anger met in the space between them, connecting and pulsing as one with a nearly visible strength. It was a minute or so until Legolas' face slowly melted back into the cold mask he had held previously. He narrowed his eyes. "Would you have preferred that?" he asked, his tone violent and hot even as his face was passive and cold. When Aila made no reply, he said, "I suppose you might have. You could have stayed with Haldir."

And it was this latest salvo that hit Aila flat in the chest, like a cannon blast, and she felt herself reeling. Pain and resentment enveloped her every thought. "Stop," she hissed, pouring anger copiously into the sibilant, pushing energy along the pulsing tendrils that joined them.

But even as her wrath flew from her lips toward Legolas, Duke intercepted her attention with a drawn out, piteous whine. Both Elf and woman turned abruptly on the dog, and Duke, with an exceptionally pitiful air, fluttered out his lips in a sigh and flipped this way and that to find a comfortable sleeping position. In doing so, he prodded his paws into both of them, and his actions were so utterly ridiculous as to be wholly comedic. The Doberman buried his face in the grass and gave one enormous puff, blowing out his cheeks and sending a cloud of dust around his nose. And while Aila wasn't paying attention, all of her anger had fled her.

She turned away from both Elf and dog then, pressing her back heavily against the stone and looking up at the stars. She realized her right hand had been held rigid, ready to strike a blow in her anger. Aila flexed and bent her fingers now, counting her breaths and doing away with the remnants of her fury, until by her third exhalation all emotion but guilt and sadness had fled her completely.

Not realizing that she had held her eyes tightly closed, Aila opened them again only to see Legolas was watching her closely. It was obvious that his anger was still very much present.

"I'm not mad at you," she said finally. She tried to look him in the eye but, realizing that she couldn't hold his gaze, she looked away again quickly. "But you're mad at me. And you should be. I think I need I need you to be," she admitted to the grayness of the hills around them. "You told me back in Lórien that I needed to continue. That I was needed to help guide the Company – and that's what I've done. That's what I need to keep doing."

"Aila …." But it was obvious that he had nothing to say, really. His voice trailed, his expression moving swiftly from anger to concern.

"I knew," she said, still addressing the night-time. She brought a hand to cover her lips, as if it would hide the real truth of her lies from the Elf. "I knew when we left Lothlórien." She laughed half-heartedly. "I knew when we left Rivendell," she admitted, shaking her head. She paused, summoning the courage for the words that needed to be said. "I knew that Boromir was going to die beside the river that day," she said finally, all in a rush; like pulling off a band-aid. "What I didn't know was whether I could do anything to change that – I didn't know if I could, I didn't know if I _should_." Deep breaths did very little to prevent her tears. Any endeavor to that end was a wasted effort; Aila tried anyway. "This is the reason I was so stressed when we were traveling down the river – I was thinking about Boromir. I was trying to decide what I should do." Now, finally, she could turn to look at him, though her tears obfuscated his face. "You asked me so many times to tell you, to share whatever burden I was carrying. But of course I couldn't tell you! Now that you know, can't you see that I could never have told you? That I never would have put the burden of that knowledge on you?"

And Legolas said quietly, "I know."

Aila paused, watching him for a moment, trying to let his words sink into her. He was being far kinder than she deserved, so she bulled on ahead. "I couldn't decide what to do, but in the end I couldn't just sit there – couldn't just _wait _while Boromir was killed. So, so I ran after him. And I stumbled immediately on the Orc that would have killed him. I thought it was a sign – so I killed the Orc instead." One more pause, one more slow breath. "And I gave his arrows, which would have killed our friend, to you. I thought I was being poetic. I thought I had challenged Fate and won." Memories of how she had felt for those few minutes flooded into her, and Aila was mortified by her own stupidity and pride. "But I didn't think … I didn't realize that the ring would still have such a hold on Boromir. I never thought that he would convince all of you to go East after Frodo instead of West like you were meant! And even though I didn't want to, I had to step in again, to change your paths again – and still it didn't occur to me that I had done something very, very wrong in saving Boromir's life." Brusquely, she wiped her dripping nose with the back of her hand and sniffed, knitting her face into a contortion of shame. "I saved Boromir's life, and in all fairness I should have paid with my own. But it was you who paid my debt," she said, meeting the gaze of his deep blue eyes. His expression was now as sorrowful as hers. He reached with a gentle hand to her cheek, brushing aside the space between them in order to likewise brush aside a tear that trailed down her cheek with his thumb; it was a gesture so simple and caring that it stole the breath from Aila's lungs. Her tears fell readily now and the corners of her mouth pulled back in an ugly expression of pitiful repentance. "It was you. It was you and I'm sorry," she cried, pushing her cheek into his palm and shutting her eyes tight. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

Now both of his hands were lifted to cup her face, and he pulled her forward to him, pressing his temple against hers in a newly familiar way. They stayed that way for the space of a few heartbeats. And what anger and sorrow had both tried to bridge, honesty repaired.

Aila reached with her own arms then and pulled herself the rest of the way to him, pressing her face into his shoulder and wrapping her arms tightly around him. He returned her tight embrace, pressing his cheek against the crown of her head. "I'm sorry," she whispered again.

And she heard him quietly respond, "_Iston. Goheno nin._"

They stayed that way for a long time, each tucked tightly into the other's embrace, Aila's face to Legolas' chest and his pressed into her hair. And they waited, measuring the moments and counting the breaths as the abyss which had spread so wide between them began to close. Inch by inch, like the slow stitching of a wound, its span closed and knitted, healing and rejoining. And when enough time had passed, it was as though that rift between them had never been.

Duke huffed again, and awkwardly wiggled his body closer to them, inserting himself between the two and pressing his head against each lap in turn. Aila laughed and pulled away, brushing her hair from her face and reaching down to stroke Duke between the ears. "Thank you," she said to Legolas. "For so many things; thank you."

Legolas smiled softly. "There is little to be thankful for. Now, when I should be forcing you to go, I am allowing you to stay. And when I should have made you stay, I allowed you to go. I have not the power, it seems, to resist your will."

"If only all of my friends were so compliant," Aila laughed. "But you were right when you said that I was the one who chose to go. I did choose, and I thank you that you do not take the power to make my own decisions from me now, even in light of my poor ones. Though, maybe you'll be less kind to me if I tell you that if given the chance again, I might still have gone with Éomer."

Legolas stared at her speechlessly, his expression falling again to disbelief.

"I know," she said, lifting a hand as a shield to defend herself from his shock and censure. She laughed weakly. "I know; I was in prison, I'm aware. It was awful and it was horrifying and I might have been killed, honestly. But I just keep thinking about Hilla," she said. "I keep thinking about the first morning that I woke up in that city. I walked outside, completely anonymous. Can't you understand?" she asked beseechingly, lifting her eyebrows and opening her eyes wide as if Legolas could read her memories. "Even in prison, I had a few days of just being Aila – only Aila. I wasn't the Light Bearer, no one expected anything of me, there were no prophecies, and definitely no flowers. I didn't have a thousand names; I only had one and it was Aila. I went outside in the morning and a cobbler looked up to say hello to me, and then he went back to work. Because I was nobody." She was staring at Legolas with her eyebrows high, as if she were trying to convince him of the most unbelievable thing in Middle Earth. "It was just so refreshing. I would give a lot to have that feeling again, to be so anonymous again."

"You would rather be imprisoned in Rohan than the woman admired and adored by the Elves?"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she replied, smiling and lifting a hand to wipe her cheek where a residual tear trail had left her skin tight. "I know that I can't escape it; I know that I'm the Light Bearer. But it would be a lie to say that it isn't awkward. That it isn't more than slightly embarrassing. There's all of this attention, all of this circumstance and import. And what am I supposed to do, in the end? Accept flowers from about a thousand different Elves standing in line, and then what? Choose a name from a list? It isn't very romantic, is it?"

"No," replied Legolas, smiling and earnest. "I'll allow that it is not."

"But that's what it is. I'm just a woman, drowning beneath the expectation and adoration of an entire race," she said, with faux drama. "It's just a burden that I will have to bear."

"I see absolutely no reason why this particular burden cannot be shared."

Aila laughed at that. "What would you do, Legolas? Help me choose a name from the list?" But Legolas did not share in her humor. He looked rather serious and anxious.

"Perhaps there will be no need for your list."

"You mean that I'll fall in love, that I'll know?" she asked, with a small smile playing on her lips. "That the answer will be so apparent that I won't have to spend hours agonizing over my choice? I don't see that as very likely."

His apparent anxiety increased a little. "Why not?"

"Well, who are my choices as of right now? I'm as likely to know them the best as I will ever know any of the Elves. But I don't know Haldir, and I don't know Glorfindel, really. And they don't really know me."

"But I know you," Legolas replied.

"That's true, you do," Aila allowed. "But you're not on my list." And with one big, relieved exhalation, she said, "Thank god you're not on my list."

Aila was not looking at Legolas, and perhaps it was good that she did not see his face because she would not have known what to make of his expression. Indeed, he had such a confusion of emotion writ across his face that it resisted any and all interpretation, even by the Elf himself. He remained silent, so as not to betray his current insecure state.

"I couldn't even imagine," she continued. "All of the times I've been dirty, all of the times I've been bloody, and needy, and neurotic. It sounds so desperate to admit how much I've needed you, how much I've come to depend on you. But none of that would be real or easy if you were openly courting me. It would all be … well, it would be messy and awkward, wouldn't it? Just like everything else in my life. And as much as I hate all of the amaryllis blossoms, I would hate that one the most that took you away from me, just as we are."

She reached out and took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his, and she smiled. He smiled back, a subtle upturning of the corners of his mouth. "I can assuredly promise you," he said, "to never in the future present you with an amaryllis blossom." His tone was meant to be light and joking, and thankfully, due to her exhaustion, Aila completely missed the tint of sadness and resignation.

"Well," she said, squeezing his hand and smiling, "there's no need to be so hasty. Maybe when this whole mess is done and I have regular access to a bath again. I'd just hate for anyone to think of me romantically when I smell so bad – actually, I think that no one can while I smell this bad."

"You have said many things; but none which I could agree with more," he replied, smiling broadly now.

Aila laughed. "There he is. There's the Legolas that I used that I know."

They spoke for a little longer, but Aila was exhausted and Duke groaned – and the three of them settled in for what remained of the night. Aila lay curled with Duke's back pressed against her, and her head resting on Legolas' thigh. The Elf sat awake, watching the shadows passing in the Rohirric hills. He ran his fingers slowly, softly, through her hair and thought for a long time. And Legolas had little sleep that night, and little pleasure in his thoughts.

. . .

_Iston. Goheno nin. =_ I know. Forgive me.

Late author's note: So I've noticed that we can now load images, as book covers and such? I'm not an artist, but maybe one of you would be interested in illustrating a little for me?


	38. The Deep

Author's Note – I just don't have anything to say to excuse myself for being absent a whole year. I'm so sorry, I really can't apologize enough. Thank you to everyone who continues to read. Posting this chapter feels like reunited with old friends. This posting is not as long as I would have liked, or as long as I had planned, but I thought it was important to post an update to let you guys know that I'm working again on this lovely project! Much, much love to all of you who missed me. I missed you, too.

. . .

38. The Deep 

It was Gimli's voice that woke her in the dark, not even the merest hint of the sun's light on the horizon. The darkness fought against her efforts to wake, pushing her eyelids closed again and tricking her back into sleep. The sky was so dark Aila wondered if the sun would rise again at all. Duke, his back pressed against Aila's torso, also resisted the Dwarf's calls for waking – he snuffled, and groaned, and shut his eyes willfully. But the merest mention of breakfast brought Duke fully onto his feet, eyes bright and keen. Gimli's laugh goaded Aila also fully into wakefulness.

Without the warmth of Duke, her process was easier, beginning to stretch aching muscles and adjusting her eyes to the darkness and to the new day. Legolas was absent, and she guessed that he had long ago left to stand a turn at watch. Only a carefully folded cloak tucked beneath her head told of his presence there at all. But Aila remembered that he had been there, she remembered their conversation, and remembered the bridging of the abyss that had been between them. She smiled, which further woke her. Thinking of Legolas restored her faith in the coming of the sun.

She followed Gimli back to the center of the camp, with Duke fretting attentively at their heels. Aila trotted along, shoving her things back into her small pack, and sharing hushed morning conversation with her friend. She could feel the tightness in her calves still and in her back, and at the corners of her eyes that indicated the remains of sleep. Her hands were too full to brush these aside.

Men of Rohan bustled around them, maintaining the hushed atmosphere of the early morning. Aila and Gimli tried to smile and laugh between them, a small attempt to diffuse the displeasure that they each fully expected: they were neither of them glad to spend another day ahorse. And though Gimli thought with excitement about the battle which would follow, that very same thought only grew a stone deep in Aila's stomach.

The trio arrived to find that Legolas and Éomer had already retrieved their respective horses and were preparing them for the day's ride. Legolas moved silently about this business, his hands moving steadily and with no excess of effort. But Aila saw that Éomer murmured to his horse with each careful stroke, and that his fingers lingered long with each touch to the horse's hide, as one might sooth a child. Both Man and Elf greeted the group as they neared. Éomer paused from his ministrations to ask after Aila's night and to bend down to scratch Duke between the ears. The dog's tail wagged voraciously at this; but Aila saw that as soon as Éomer's attentions were finished, the dog moved immediately to sit at Legolas' feet. She even thought that she caught a small smile on the Elf's face at this.

Éomer straightened again with a bright smile, and Aila recognized some mischief in his eyes. "Shall we exchange riding partners today, Legolas?" he asked, his dark eyes remaining on Aila.

Now Legolas looked fully up from Arod, and he paused for but a moment. The Elf frowned. "It is already so lucky, Lord Éomer, that I trust you with my friend the Dwarf." His tone was flat, though Aila hoped that she recognized even some small joke in it. Her lungs constricted nervously. "I should not be so forceful with my trust," said the Elf, "were I you."

Thankfully, Éomer only burst into laughter at this, robust and loud. It broke the hushed atmosphere of the Men around them. Aila laughed experimentally along with him, as Éomer went back to the business of readying his horse.

Gimli, however, did not choose to indulge this joke and grumbled, "It is not so easy that you can give me up, Éomer son of Éomund!"

And with laughter still rich in his voice, Éomer replied, "I thought not to, dear friend! But you must admit that we are the hairiest pair – we have all the beards and they have none!" He paused here to laugh unashamedly at his own joke and threw a wink to Aila. "I thought only to make our grouping a bit more equitable!"

After a moment's pause to consider such logic, the Dwarf also burst into a hearty guffaw and Aila, more comfortable now, whole-heartedly joined him. She even saw that Legolas' mouth turned into a small smile.

"Your concerns are noted, but I promise that I rather like our pairings as they are. Your beards are well suited to one another," Legolas said, as their laughter lingered. "And I admit that I much prefer Aila's face to either of yours."

Gimli grumbled again, but this time in good nature. It was Éomer that said jovially, and with another wink, "Aye, but does she prefer yours?"

Aila saw the small smile on Legolas' face melted away within the breadth of a second. His eyes drew to Éomer sharply, and there was a tense moment. "Well," said Aila, scrambling to diffuse whatever had just erupted, "Elves at least smell better than Men or Dwarves, so I think that I will stay with Legolas." She tried to laugh along with her own joke again, to return their good-humored air, but Legolas only returned to his attentions to Arod. Gimli's eyes seemed to be everywhere but Man or Elf, and even Éomer's smile lessened.

"So then I am defeated," said Éomer more quietly than before, and he returned a too-broad smile to Aila. "I shall have to try a cleverer trick on the morrow!"

And so it happened that their last pleasant moment in a decidedly unpleasant day had descended to awkwardness.

. . .

The air quickly grew hot and thick, though it was still quite early in the morning. The sun did indeed rise, if a bit lethargically, and wavered behind a wispy set of cirrus clouds. Black thunder-clouds hurried quickly on the heels of the slow-moving sun and threatened to overtake it altogether. The sky fought a tenuous battle between morning and darkness.

Aila kept her arms wound tightly around Legolas, today far less cavalier with her riding abilities than the day before. Arod was gentler to her today, and Aila wondered how much of that was due to Legolas no longer being angry with her. He even tried speaking to her several times but it was hard to hear his voice over the thundering of the horses around him and Aila could only ever respond with an apologetic squeeze. She spent considerable energy keeping her head down, and therefore had much less dust in her nose and mouth as the day before. Occasionally, she did allow herself a peek around the Elf's shoulder at the Riders in front, and beyond them there was a growing mass of darkness which billowed north-west of them, leaping out from the foot of the Misty Mountains. Darkness behind and darkness before, yet the Men of Rohan rode on.

It was probably around noon that Aila saw Gandalf working his way backward in the mass of Riders towards them, where they rode near to the mass' center. Shadowfax moved swiftly and surely in the running stream of horses, and though she had seen him some fifty yards off not a moment before, suddenly he was galloping easily beside Legolas and herself.

"You have the keen eyes of your fair kindred, Legolas," Gandalf said by way of greeting, and though he did not shout his voice cut easily through the thunder of horses. Aila was so amazed by this alone that she nearly forgot to attend to his words. "And they can tell a sparrow from a finch a league off. Tell me, can you see anything away yonder towards Isengard?" The darkness sitting there, Aila assumed, was more than thunder-clouds.

Legolas turned to gaze into the darkening mass that was roiling before them, and he held one long hand over his eyes to focus his vision. Arod continued on beneath him though the Elf had dropped the reins. "Many miles lie between," he said after a minute or so of gazing. "I can see darkness. There are shapes moving in it, great shapes far away upon the bank of the river; but what they are, I cannot tell. It is not mist or cloud that defeats my eyes: there is a veiling shadow that some power lays upon the land, and it marches slowly downstream. It is as if the twilight under endless tress were flowing downwards from the hills."

And even as Legolas said this, Aila found that Gandalf looked directly to her. His eyes were full of meaning, though of particularly what she could not guess. With so little idea of the appropriate response, Aila merely nodded to the Wizard. He seemed, however, to take this nod well – which led Aila to wonder if perhaps she should have nodded – and he wore a satisfied look. Legolas, who had felt Aila's movement at his shoulder and saw the Wizard's subsequent pleasure, seemed to understand the situation better than Aila and his spine stiffened in disapproval. Aila, alone, remained oblivious to the meaning which had passed in that moment.

The company rode all day, with hardly a break, and it seemed to Aila that they literally flew before the gathering clouds that chased them. The sunset was drawn and hazy behind the gathered wisps of cloud, and though those same clouds should have reflected a bright myriad of colors in a glorious sunset, they only deadened the last rays of the setting sun.

And as those last rays were fading away, there rose up a shout from among the Rohirrim: A rider! they called. A rider moving towards them!

The shout was taken up and passed along the group until all the Riders were bristling with this exciting new information. Aila's hands tightened around Legolas and she said to him, "We should ride to the front." She looked to Éomer, who had heard her. "We should ride to the front with your uncle the king." He needed no further word of urging; Éomer rallied his horse forward, sprinting and weaving through the Riders, as Legolas and Aragorn urged their own seats forward to follow the Marshal.

By the time their three horses had gained the front of the company, settling into stride alongside Théoden and Gandalf, the unknown rider was nearly upon them. They slowed, and ultimately reared their horses back and halted, as the bedraggled rider did the same. The Rohirrim gathered round, spears bristling and armor clanking, to hear what this newcomer had to say.

He was a weary man, this Rider, and clearly of the Rohirrim. He did not so much dismount from his horse as fall from it, allowing gravity to do the lion's share of his work. Dirty fingers, trembling with exhaustion, removed his dented helm and let it fall clanging to the ground. Blood smeared his face still, dried where it had fallen from his comrades' wounds. The horse stamped his feet experimentally, to return the circulation to them after a hard ride, and the cloven shield of the Rider clattered pathetically at the horse's rear. The Rider was bent forward, hardly able to stand, and he clung heavily still to the reins to support himself.

Finally, after much gasping, he asked, "Is Éomer here? You came at last, but too late, and with too little strength. Things have gone evilly since Théodred fell." He paused again to catch his breath. Aila heard only the breath of horses in the dawning silence. "We were driven back yesterday over the Isen with great loss; many perished at the crossing. All Isengard must be emptied; we were overmastered." Another gasp. "The shield-wall is broken," he said dismally, shaking his head. His dirty blonde hair shook out cakes of mud as it moved. "Erkenbrand of Westfold has drawn off those men he could gather towards his fortress in Helm's Deep. The rest are scattered. Oh," he cried suddenly, "where is Éomer?" Aila realized that this Man was so exhausted that he could not recognize their faces. "Tell him there is no hope ahead! He should return to Edoras before the wolves of Isengard come there!"

And Théoden, who had sat close-mouthed and grim as the Man spoke, now urged his horse forward, proclaiming fiercely, "Come, stand before me, Ceorl" – for he knew the man. "I am here. This last host of the Eorlingas has ridden forth. It will not return without battle."

The Man's face now lit with joy and disbelief. "_Westu Théoden hál!_" he cried, falling to one knee and crossing his fist over his heart. It took him a minute or so to stand up again. "Command me, lord!" he said in his quavering voice, though it was easy to hear the renewed passion in it. "And pardon me! I thought –"

"You thought I remained in Meduseld, like an old tree under winter snow," said the king. "And so it was when you rode to war. But a west wind has shaken the bough!"

Gandalf, whose sharp blue eyes had watched carefully, now stared to the north to Isengard, and then west to the settling sun. He said then, "Ride, Théoden. Ride to Helm's Deep! Go not forth to the Fords of Isen, and do not tarry in the plain! I must leave you now for a while. Shadowfax must bear me now on swift errand." And, in a flurry of motion, Shadowfax flew round so that the Wizard was near to Aragorn and Éomer. "Keep well the Lord of the Mark, till I return!" he commanded. "Await me at Helm's Gate! Farewell!" And then, a flash of silver, a breath over grass: Shadowfax had already born the Wizard away out of sight.

The company of Riders buzzed at this sudden change of events – a lone Rider come to tell them that their destination was not the Isen, but Helm's Deep! And Gandalf, the White Wizard, one moment with them and the next gone!

"What does that mean?" asked one of the guard to Háma, in reference to the latter.

"That Gandalf Greyhame has need of haste," replied the door-man without hesitation or doubt. "Ever he goes and comes unlooked-for."

The other frowned at this. "Wormtongue, were he here, would not find it hard to explain."

"True enough," assented Háma, though with a sharp frown. "But for myself, I will wait until I see Gandalf again."

Doubtfully, the first replied, "Maybe you will wait long."

Aila, hearing this, turned sharply to them and frowned, once more feeling the need to defend her champion. "A Wizard returns when he is needed most," she said cryptically, bringing every eye within hearing distance to her. She looked hard and long at the guard who had spoken distrustfully of Gandalf. "It will not be overlong."

And with a keen sense of timing, Legolas urged Arod forward. The stallion quickly left the others far behind.

. . .

Deep night followed dark day, hurrying after the host of Rohirrim as they finally reached the lands of the Westfold. The land here was hillier than Rohan, though the well-bred Rohirric horses had little difficulty navigating the rocky landscape in the dark. It took Aila some time and straining of her eyes to realize that they were descending quickly now into a wide bank between two risen fields of mountains. She had seen enough John Wayne films to know that this was prime territory for ambush, and she noted that scouts rode ahead of them, at the rear, and also at the wings to give warning to the main host. They proceeded unmolested into the night, however, and they cut a swift line through the green valley.

"This is called the Westfold Vale," said Legolas to her quietly, and she was surprised that she could now hear his soft voice. The land was grassy and it dampened the sound of so many galloping horses. "This whole region has also been called Helm's Deep – named after a Man of legend, who kept his fastness here. It is said that the fortress here was built with the hands of giants."

Aila leaned her head heavily against his shoulder, exhausted. "I should be more impressed were it built by mere Men." She felt Legolas' laugh rather than heard it.

He replied, "I think that were its true history more well known, you would be more satisfied."

She had been anxiously staring into the blackness of the night for any sign of attack or danger, and Aila was drawn and tired from the effort. Now she trusted to Legolas' sharp sight and closed her eyes, resting as well as she could on the back of Arod.

Their host hurried on toward the Hornburg – their refuge in the Deep. It was only when Aila had relaxed that their progress began to become harried by wolf-riders at their flanks, or the scouts of some army that hurried also on their tail. Aila resumed her tiresome vigil, but they remained harassed and haunted. Shouts of warning pricked at the edges of her hearing throughout the small hours of the night; and with each raised voice, each launched attack against them, their ride became more desperate. If Aila had thought their horses could not have moved more quickly, she was routinely proved wrong.

Dawn, beautiful and welcome, finally broke over the crest of the eastern mountain range and it lit their path ahead of them – and Aila could finally spy their quarry. The nameless mountain ranges bordering the Vale smashed into one another with violence some miles ahead of them. Their peaks intertwined, thrusting grasping fingers into the lightening sky. And at the very base of this brutal crest sat the ancient, thick walls of the Hornburg. Against the mountains, its walls seemed disappointingly low-slung and miniscule, but as they neared its stony seat Aila saw that its walls similarly rose to an imposing and daunting specter.

A sentinel's shout challenged them as they neared its Gate.

"The Lord of the Mark rides to Helm's Gate," Éomer replied to the challenge, and Aila could hear the exhaustion in his voice, pulling at the edges of his words and sharpening his rounded vowels. It seemed their desperate ride had worn even the most experienced of horsemen. "I, Éomer, son of Éomund, speak."

Éomer was well known throughout Rohan and the Westfold Vale as a fierce warrior, and so dampened and ragged cheers rose up from behind the walls. "This is good tidings beyond hope!" replied the sentinel. He turned to wave instructions to the Men in the keep below. "Hasten! We welcome you with grateful arms!"

The Gate was lifted and the Riders of Rohan began to flood onto the grassy field within. They were greeted by several hundred Men of Helm's Deep, outfitted thickly with war attire; it was apparent that they had been expecting a less friendly host than the one they had received. They would indeed receive their foe shortly, but now they would face them with friends at their side. And so these Men of the Westfold looked on with joy at the incoming host of Rohirrim, and the Rohirrim saw with equal joy that Erkenbrand had left a large number of Men to hold the Hornburg. The Westfold leader himself, they were told, was still afield.

The Westfoldians helped their comrades from horses, and led them to a field infirmary so that those wounded in the night's ambushes could be tended to. Horses were taken to stable and Men, Rohirric and Westfoldian alike, went about the business of eating and resting. A large number of sentries remained on the walls and there was a look in each set of eyes that shared the knowledge of the army bearing down on them.

. . .

There were about a dozen Westfoldian women who had come to serve in the makeshift infirmary, set deep within the Citadel. These women watched Aila with observant, knowing eyes, though Aila quickly found that none of them spoke the Common Tongue save the matron of their small group. They were excessively kind to her. Aila spent most of that day asleep on one of the hospital pallets, exhausted from the full day of riding through the Vale and enemy attacks.

When she woke again, it was early evening, and the hospital area was quiet and nearly abandoned. Only two nurses remained, tending to the Riders who had been injured crossing the Vale. They murmured rhythmically in the Rohirric tongue. Aila rose as quietly as she could from the straw mattress, finding Duke curled up on the floor beside her. He woke when he felt her movement, and together they went in search of their companions.

Aila spotted Legolas and Gimli at once, as she stepped outside of the Citadel. They would have been difficult to miss, standing atop the wall in stark relief: Legolas' blond hair flashing in the weak light of the setting sun, striking an odd tall figure beside Gimli's squat frame.

Gimli stood leaning against the breastwork on the wall as Aila joined them, and Legolas sat above on a merlon. The Elf's fingers were playing along the string of his bow, and he peered out into the darkening field beyond the wall.

"This is more to my liking," said Gimli cheerfully, stamping on the stones and grinning at Aila. His heavy boots gave a nearly metallic clang against the even heavier stone. "Ever my heart rises as we draw near the mountains. There is good rock here. This country has tough bones. I felt them in my feet as we came up from the dike. Give me a year and a hundred of my kin and I would make this a place that armies would break upon like water!"

"I do not doubt it," replied Legolas. "But you are a Dwarf, and Dwarves are strange folk. I do not like this place, and I do not think that I shall ever find to like it any more. But you, at least, comfort me, Gimli, and I am glad to have you standing nigh with your stout legs and your hard axe. I wish there were more of your king among us. But even more would I give for a hundred good archers of Mirkwood. We shall need them." His look to Aila then was sorrowful, and Aila wondered if he still had the same sentiment he had expressed when they had left Edoras: that he was frightened for her, but glad to have her near.

"It is dark for archery," replied Gimli with a dismissive wave of his hand. He had a keen glint in his eyes. "Indeed, it is time for sleep. Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any Dwarf could. Riding is tiring work."

"Did neither of you sleep today?" cried Aila, feeling immediately guilty for her long rest.

Legolas replied only with the shake of his head, as Gimli said, "Aye, but a little. It is always an uneasy rest on the eve of battle, with a foe bearing down upon you. And yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing, and all weariness will fall from me!"

"You shall not wait long now," said Legolas, gesturing to the dark. "Our enemy draws near. Look."

Aila and Gimli both moved then to strain their eyes over the parapet wall, even Duke lifted himself to place his front paws on a crenel and gaze out to the battlefield. The Doberman's profile in the darkness was so intense that it nearly distracted Aila from her mounting fear.

She could see nothing for a long time, hearing only the slamming of her own heart against her rib cage. _Thud thump_, _thud thump_, each heartbeat built painfully upon the last. Perhaps Legolas heard also, because his hand moved to envelope hers where it rested on the merlon beside him. His fingers squeezed hers.

And then, like fireflies in the night, Aila saw the telltale flickers. Torches blinked into existence far afield, just cresting into their sight. Her heart ceased its thudding just a moment too long, and Legolas' fingers squeezed tighter. The lights in the darkness multiplied and multiplied, and they drew nearer and nearer even as Aila willed them out of existence. Gimli called out to the other sentries, and the word was quickly spread.

The enemy had come.


End file.
